Collateral Damage

Since the accident, I keep trying to imagine the woman who caused it — the woman who rammed into me, who looked straight at oncoming traffic and thought, “I can make it.”

I demonize her. A lot. And honestly? She fucking deserves it.

This wasn’t an “oopsie,” a cute little my bad with an apologetic shrug.

No.

This was a major fuck-up. A life-altering, body-breaking, spirit-twisting catastrophe that only happened because she was there, because she made a reckless decision, because she played chicken with physics and I’m the one who paid for it.

She didn’t tap a bumper at a Wendy’s. She hit a goddamned biker. She shattered bones, shredded soft tissue, rearranged my face, and nearly killed me.

So does she feel bad? I wonder that constantly.

Because from where I’m lying — stuck in this borrowed bed, six weeks later — she was barely inconvenienced. She had to stop. Had to talk to the officer. And then… she got to go home. She got to continue her night.

Her car? Fucked up, sure. Totaled? Doubt it.

My bike? Lilith was totaled.

My body? Still paying the bill.

And don’t even get me started on the drunk asshole in her passenger seat — belligerent, loud, useless testimony tossed aside because he was drunk. But why the hell wasn’t she tested? Since when is “standing next to someone drunker than you” the fucking standard for sobriety? Wouldn’t executing a catastrophically timed U-turn — one that throws a biker across asphalt and bone-saws their body — be a sign of impaired judgment? But no breathalyzer. No test. No consequences.

As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who’s paid a price.

I’m the only one who paid a deductible — in flesh and blood. The only one whose insurance kicked in. The only one whose life detonated on impact.

Meanwhile she… what? Got home late? Missed the first half of the game? Had to explain a dent to her husband?

And then I read the crash report.

And this woman — this woman — had the audacity to suggest I was speeding. As if that gives people permission to mow bikers down. As if being “a little fast” means I deserved to be broken.

I was out for my nightly ride. Something I do every goddamned evening to calm the rumble inside me. Even on work days: I ride up, ride back, get home restless, gear up, and ride again until the tank’s empty… and then I ride some more.

My bike lit up the night. LED headlight bright enough to blind God. LED running lights at the bars. An 850-pound steel beast glowing like a small sun.

She “didn’t see me”? Really?

At the minimum — the bare fuckin’ minimum — I hope she feels bad. I hope she got that police report, Googled my name, and wondered if I died. I hope her stomach drops every time she hears motorcycles now.

But deep down, I know better. Her life continued with almost no disruption.

Mine? Stopped.

I still can’t walk. Still can’t go home because my house has stairs. Still can’t work. Still can’t ride. Still can’t do a single goddamned thing that feels like me.

And somewhere, she’s probably sitting on her couch with takeout, sipping a Corona, maybe scrolling her phone completely unaware that she blew someone’s life apart.

I imagine it because it’s easier than the truth: The people who cause wreckage rarely feel the wreckage. It’s the people hit by them who live inside it.