This is an excerpt from the novel I'm writing called "Finding Grace Again." 

   “It’s like they are etched into my eyelids’” Regan told the therapist. “The only thing I see are these words,” Regan explained while grasping onto a drenched handful of tissues. “And then the sound of the metal, the screeching, the horns, the jolt,” she said crossing her arms. “I can’t see or hear anything else.”

   “I went through a red light at 40 miles per hour.” The police said she never slowed down. It was as if there was no intersection, no red light, and no danger whatsoever.  Just the words from the text.

   “Then what happens?” the therapist is gentle about the way she asks, probing Regan to continue, to purge herself of the details. She has recounted the story, factually, over and over to police officers, but this is the first time her tears don’t stop falling. It is as if they will never stop and she will drown in them.

   “The truck slams into the passenger side and I hear the crush, I feel the wave. It’s so fast and it stops all at once. It’s supersonic and it’s paused.” Regan adds, “I remember everything and nothing.”

   Regan is sobbing now, her eyes are red and swollen and watery, her shirt is wet from perspiration and she is shaking. “It’s important that you keep going,” the therapist pushes her to keep remembering.

   Regan continues, her voice cracking, she sounds almost-childlike herself. Her body is molding into a ball. Fetal position feels familiar to her. “I see Grace’s hair. It’s like a whip. It hits my cheek. She is being thrown from the backseat. I feel her skin and her arm, her delicate arm, as I reach for her with my hand. She slips out of my grasp.” Regan talks slowly, very slowly. She doesn’t leave out any details. Regan is quiet for a few moments, then she opens her mouth, “She’s gone,” is all that comes out. “Grace is gone.”