The International Writers Magazine:Me First

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All About Me • Rosanne Stewart It's tricky to say at the exact moment I thought I was going to die; perhaps the moment I buried my head into my hands or perhaps the instant the car began to revolve. I question whether I infact did think I was going to die; I say this because my life didn’t flash before me, just a bizarre silence followed by the fierce screech of the wheels. Your Life flashing before your eyes? I personally think that’s a just a rumour thats managed to slither its way out of heaven.

It wasn’t the fact that I wasn’t dead (it turns out I wasn’t..) It was the fact that I was completely alive. My heart was pulsating, my eyes were vigilant and my responses seemed to amplify along with my haste. To some degree I felt superhuman getting out of that steaming wreckage that I used to call a Fiat Punto. And then came the hysteria, the nervous laughter at the side of the M6 from the silly, little blonde who presently thought she was superwoman.

‘Ham-fisted’ is how my mother describes me and as much as I protest I would say that is a fairly accurate observation. My inability to do anything that involves being coordinated has some what hindered my progression through life, whether it was humliating myself at dance classes or simply opening a can of alphabet spaghetti. Its a question of why I have to be so awkard? Let me assure you this isn’t something that has developed overtime, it’s been like this since day one.

Apparently I was born ‘hand first’: ‘You wanted to shake the doctors hand and tell him what a good job he was doing’ – Yes father, that joke wasn’t funny at the time and it certainly isn’t funny now. A car crash on the motorway was no shock to anyone. The bolt from the blue was the ability I had to deal with the situation. The M6 is a lonesome place for a self-confessed clumsy, awkward nineteen year old on a bank holiday, yet I was sharp and perceptive; observing the situation and doing everything... right. To you this may sound absurd: ‘Of course, you were in a car crash... you’re not just going to sit back and spark up a fag you silly cow.’ It’s not that. It was how ‘together’ I was. I’m not ‘together’. I’m all over the place, but send me knocking on Death’s door and somehow my pieces accumulate and form this fantastic woman who could probably perform the Macarena blind-folded, while opening a can of alphabet spaghetti with her feet. She's gone now; she stayed around for about an hour or so, but once the car wreckage was taken away so was she.

What will it take to bring her back? That's what I’m afraid of. Am I going to have to go bungee jumping and hope she gives me a cheeky wink just before I hit the ground? It seems my pieces are scattered until someone or something puts them back together again.

© Roseanne Stewart - November 2008

Roseanne is studying Creatrive Writing at the University of Portsmouth

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