I died on a chilly September morning on my way to school. I don't know where the semi truck came from, but I do know it hit my red Prius and sent me flying into a ditch. My body was thrown from the car and into the creek that ran next to the road. My head split open on a rock lying in the creek bed, and I bled out within the hour.
The ambulance and fire trucks and police cars all came as fast as they could, but not fast enough. The paramedics tried to revive me, but to no avail. I watched as my body was zipped up into a black body bag and hauled off towards the hospital and the morgue.
I stayed there, alone on that empty highway. I watched as they all packed up and left, one by one. Cars resumed their original movement, and soon, it was as if I had never died. Life went on, and no one stopped and wondered why there was a streak of blood running through the creek. Or why a torn black converse was lying on the side of the road. No one saw my student ID lying on the pavement as car after car drove over it.
I was dead, and still the world went on.
