Someone stopped believing me or was it I stopped? I cannot recall. The confusion photographs cause to my memory continues. Yesterday, standing at the sink looking out the window at the children playing in the sun it flashed in front of me and in an instant a single tear welled and fell. I shut my eyes until it passed. It always passes. What remains is an uncertainty, a doubt. Did it happen? Was I there?
I was walking along a street in a foreign country. The stone grey walls of the buildings, the darker grey of the road, the reflections of the cars passing in the windows and passersby, I can see them all. I see the car approach, not on the road, but on the pavement. Screeching towards me. I stood, I froze. The passersby rushing past me, shouting, screaming. The grey clouds of the sky reflecting clearly in the windscreen of the car as it smashed into me. Then silence. My face resting hard on the punctured texture of the pavement stone. It changed colour as blood ran over it. Faces tilted, speaking to me, speaking to each other. A leaf blew into my face, sticking to my mouth as I inhaled. A hand brushed it free.
Later in the hospital I was shown the photographs, taken by the police who arrived on the scene within minutes, they said. They were passed them to me, one by one. The events were narrated and the result of the impact detailed carefully to me. My recovery was outlined and planned. Hearing them talk like this, seeing the evidence, I believed. My family, who were here at my side, appeared relieved. I saw trust in their eyes as the photographs were passed over to them. Their heads nodded as I was told I would recover. They looked at me for confirmation. Of course, I nodded too. But