As I lay there, crumbled and twisted, literally trapped under my own stupidness, you crawled through the chunks of windscreen. You lay, belly pressed to glass, chatting to me about my hobbies, my interests. Tucked me under a manky old jumper. You searched through the shards of plastic to find my brand new phone. You told me I was going to make it, and I believed you.
As the car was lifted and my hand finally freed. It hurt. Really hurt. You stayed. You strapped. You told me not to move. You cared, really cared, about the 17 year old bloody mess before you.
For you. I was a job. A horrible job but a job none the less. For me, you made the worst time in my life survivable.