NOT EVERY SURVIVOR LOOKS BROKEN
His name is Elias At 5:30 am, his phone alarm rang like it always did, and he turned it off without looking. He remembered nothing of the night before, nothing of the crash that would mark the rest of his life. It was raining hard. The roads slick, the headlights blinding. He and his father were driving home from a late meeting. Laughter had filled the car moments before. He could still feel the warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder. Then the other car came, too fast, out of control. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Pain, sharp and unrelenting, ripped through him. The world tilted, flipped, and became darkness. When the paramedics arrived, his father was trapped. Iron pinned him in his seat, legs broken, chest pressed against the twisted frame. He begged them between gasps, tears streaking the rain: “My son, save my son first… please, make sure he’s okay…” Elias doesn’t remember consciousness, only flashes: the sound of the rescue tools, the screeching metal, the world movin...