The Alibi of Megan Collins
Chapter 1: The Fracture
I never told my husband the truth about who I was.
To Derek Collins, I was merely Megan—a perpetually exhausted, meek receptionist at a local dental clinic who scraped by paycheck to paycheck. I deliberately allowed him to believe this fabricated version of myself because my perceived weakness acted as a mirror, reflecting back the inflated, grandiose image he desperately needed to see. More importantly, in the suffocating ecosystem of my marriage to Derek, “peace” was strictly conditional. It demanded that I remain small, invisible, and eternally grateful for his presence.
The illusion shattered on a slick, rain-soaked Thursday evening on the interstate just outside Columbus, Ohio.
The sky had bruised into a heavy, violent purple. The tires of an overloaded pickup truck in the next lane hydroplaned across a deep puddle. The heavy metal chassis drifted, violently clipping the rear quarter panel of my aging sedan. The impact sent my car into a terrifying, uncontrolled spin across three lanes of traffic before slamming nose-first into the concrete guardrail. The driver’s side airbag detonated, hitting my face with the localized force of a heavyweight’s fist.
I instantly tasted copper. The sharp, hot tang of my own blood flooded my mouth.
