I was just walking to the 7-11 for the usual Sunday morning sausage, egg and cheese biscuit sandwich - all those fat calories! - while my laundry tumbled in the laundry mat when, splat. I was humming some sad obscure tune (my favorite kind of music, of course) so I unfortunately didn’t notice or react to the careening car that took the corner I was crossing at a ridiculously reckless speed. I heard gasps. People dropped grocery bags of breakfast and steaming coffee. It was so quick. I was hit soundly and bowled up over the hood of the car, spider cracked the windshield with my head, and proceeded to be flung over the back end (it was a silver Toyota Celica, by the way) until coming to rest in a frumpled and, well, dead pile on street scarred with fresh skid marks.
I died instantly. There was so much blood. It’s a startling sight when you have never seen it. They see TV desensitizes you, but nothing can soften the shock of real live death and gore smacked in your face. I don’t care how many Slasher movies you’ve seen.
One of the unlucky eyewitnesses – one of the few to shake her initial stunned reaction – knelt over me with deep green eyes and checked for a pulse. I saw through the blood, her face. It was framed by somber white light that I took to be Heaven’s glow. She was saying words. Her lips were glistened with what I guessed to be Violet Extreme lipstick. A dumb name, but a nice color. A girl I once dated wore that color. Emily. She was more gorgeous than this clearly frightened girl that was here trying to see if I was alive. But it’s a biased comparison, as I was in love with Emily and love makes you see people differently than a random stranger on the street would see them. Anyway, this good citizen kept talking to me; her bottom lip was twitching with concern. I hear the words now, but they sound distant and echoed, like they have traveled across an expansive canyon and only the last traces of decipherable language are heard:
I felt bad for her, and tried to wake up with all my might. Alas, the route to death is a one-way street and despite my best attempts, I just couldn’t shift into reverse. Tears dropped from her eyes and onto my cooling skin. It was a weird feeling; I could sense their warmth, but the sensation felt so removed and displaced, like it happened years ago and I was only remembering the moment in my fractured head. Yet, it was deeply vivid, like those memories we all have that are so profound and forceful that you can almost taste and feel them like they were happening right now. Memory is a powerful thing.
Soon after I felt her phantom tears, sirens grew louder and louder until my gracious green eyed friend was removed from her watch over my mangled body and I was pronounced at a good, solid, 10:30 AM on the dot by what I assume was the county coroner, as that is one of his main duties. I was placed in a body bag and it was slowly zipped closed. I was afraid that the lush, inviting, white light that I have been almost completely focused on (but haven’t been telling you too much about) would vanish after the zipper brought to close my short and unfinished life. But, thankfully, the light remained, stronger than ever, whiter than white, and my still heart became rushed with love. I admit, sadness trumpeted in there as well. A sadness for not getting to unravel my future. A sadness for not being able to say goodbye. I was only going to the store. I wasn’t planning on this.
