I Am Anastasia

I Am Alive

“She’s got a strong pulse. She’ll be alright.”

               Her son is still crying.  I look around. Some people are groaning and holding their heads or necks, one lady is clutching her mouth with wide eyes, blood running from between her fingers.  Cautiously, I touch the side of my forehead and find a sizable goose egg there.

               The bus driver struggles to get out of his seat, looking dazed.

               “Is everyone okay?”

               Most people nod, some groan.  My head is starting to throb with the beginnings of a headache, as if it has permission now that we're out of danger. 

               “What the hell happened?”  A teenage boy sitting across the aisle from me has his headphones around his neck, tinny music still blaring out of the earpieces.

               “Someone was coming down the wrong side of the highway,” the bus driver says grimly. “I think someone else rear ended us though. I’ve got to go check on them.  The ambulance is on the way; don’t get up if you feel dizzy." He turns to exit the bus, staggering down the stairs.

               I'm not sure what to do - some people are getting up now, others are still sitting to nurse their bruises.  I don't feel dizzy, just shaky, so I stand up to test my legs. My head swims a little, but I manage to shake it off and take a few steps forward, carefully picking my way around the unconscious form of the woman and her distraught son.  I feel like I should say something to him.

“Your mom will be okay,”I say quietly.

               Outside it's chaos.  The air is filled with smoke and the high wail of sirens.  I blink at the seizure-inducing flashes of red and blue that are lighting up the night.

People on the opposite side of the highway have pulled their cars over and are sprinting towards the bus, which is sitting lengthwise across the asphalt. I turn my head and my neck protests the motion, but I ignore it when I see the smoking wreck of a car that's ploughed its way under the back of the bus.  It's stuck underneath all the way up to its dashboard. 

               The bus driver is there, trying to pull the passenger side door open, but it's locked or stuck.   One of the people finally reaches me, a tall kid with shaggy black hair.  He sticks his face in mine, grabbing my arms.

               “Hey, are you okay? Are you in shock?”

               I blink at him. “No, I don’t think so.”

               “Is anyone on the bus hurt?”

               “One lady. She’s unconscious in the aisle,” I say numbly.  The guy runs past me and up the bus stairs, and my eyes shift back to the crushed car on the back of the bus.  I think I might puke.

               People flood off the bus now, complaining and talking loudly.  One lady keeps repeating in a high annoying voice, “Where are the ambulances? You think they would be here by now. The police are here. Where are the ambulances?”

She finally stops when two ambulances come racing down the highway, followed closely by two more police cars.

               I watch as the first paramedics climb out, jogging toward the crushed car.  The second set of paramedics comes to us. One is a man with short bristly hair, the other a petite brunette women.