The last thing I remember was the cars crashing at high speeds ahead of my own speeding car. That's all I remember independently. I don't remember where I was going. Or where I came from. Or my mother. Or my father. Or any siblings if I had any. Only the feeling of my car jerking around in wild directions as I struggled to tighten my grip on the wheel in fear. And then I was here. In a great bedroom on a comfortable bed with a bandage on my head. Little did I know, my story is planned out and written. Not by God. But by them.