My Life Flashed Before Me
The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of chaos as my car hurtled off the highway at 120 km/h, a missile launched by my own exhaustion. Just 2.5 hours into a grueling 12-hour drive, after starting work at 5 a.m. with no rest, my eyes betrayed me—shutting for a fleeting second. That was all it took. The tires screamed, the earth tilted, and my silver sedan became a tumbling coffin, rolling seven times down a jagged cliff. Each flip was a thunderclap, metal crunching, glass shattering, my heart pounding in my throat. When it finally stopped, the car lay broken on its roof, wheels spinning uselessly toward the sky. I was alive. But for how long? Petrol dripped, a sinister hiss filling the air as the ignition sparked, threatening to turn my prison into a pyre. Trapped in my seat, the belt cutting into my chest, I felt death’s cold breath on my neck. My life didn’t just flash before me—it screamed. My kids’ faces burned into my mind, their laughter echoing like a cruel reminder of what ...
