The day of the accident started quite normally by my standards. Which to be honest, was not saying a lot. Quick drink at the coffeehouse, the usual morning rush, and a trip to the florist to grab some orchids for Mrs.Delagio. halfway down third street I realize that I forgot my bike at the flower shop. I sometimes question whether most of my brain was given to Elsie. I dragged my pretty turquoise bike across the street, and by dragged, I mean tried to hoist it along with me. I was gnawing on the inside of my cheek sharply, the emaciating pain of ruining this bike hitting me like a blow to the chest, but I was running late.

The bike was a vintage thing, shiny coat of turquoise paint, a basket latched to the front made by white wicker and a dainty silver bell that made the most adorable jingle. 

The sun baked pavement seemed to sizzle with every step I took and I honestly wondered why holes hadn't been burned into my sneakers yet. The parching heat radiated in waves from the unrelenting sun, a sinister punishment to the working population.

God. Moving to Los Angeles was a mistake. Working for Mrs Delagio was an even bigger one.

The threat of my dismissal hung ever near despite my multiple efforts and toilings. The fact that I barely just moved into my tiny studio apartment apparently did not deter her steely resolve, her screams over the phone ever so shrill. I huffed and puffed as I reached the sidewalk, my hand reaching to press the pedestrian-way button.

My foot tapped incessantly as I threw nervous glances at the traffic light then back to my watch. The people that stood huddled next to me were eyeing me skeptically, all clad in business suits and tight elegant dresses. Yep, it was serious mistake to get a job in this part of town, where the rich and upper class reigned. But my career was suffering a humiliating nosedive and was in dire need of a serious jumpstart, and so this remained my only valid diving board.

So, I held my chin high, despite the wispy baby hairs that stuck out like the sun, despite my cracked glasses, despite my disheveled hand me down outfit. And walked right into the street.

Turns out the reason they had been staring at me was not because of my outward appearance but because my bike's back wheel was jutting out unto the road precariously.

How humiliating.

I didn't even see the car coming. A champagne-colored hatchback with custom spoilers. And it rammed right into my bike.

I felt the impact drag my arm forwards, and with a horrifying gut-wrenching crack, my arm was no longer in its socket.

I heard a ringing in my ears, time moving like it was honey as I watched my bike being smashed to bits in slow motion by the hatchback that was trying desperately to brake. I couldn't hear the obvious screams and yells from the crowd that had accumulated through all the ringing.

I slowly realized that my heart was racing, my head snapping down in shock at its speed. People were pushing, jogging, flagging cars down, all the commotion centering around me.

Then the ringing stopped. And the pain hit. That's when I knew the adrenalin had died out. Blinding searing pain, red hot from my shoulder to my wrist. I opened my mouth to scream; but nothing came out. I just stood there in agony, my mouth opening and closing like a fish.

I felt myself being dragged away from the street, causing another jet of blinding pain to rush up my spine. I gasp, unable to make any other form of coherent word, my breathing shallow and fast. I was hyperventilating before I knew it. I tried to calm my breathing, trying all the breathing techniques that I'd been taught. None worked. I couldn't even make myself pass out.

Damn it.

I miss my bike.