D.O.A.

I'm dead.

Not figuratively; actually.

I died not two seconds ago. Ever been hit by a bus? Some poor bastards actually do and survive; if you're part of the club, you can empathize, right? No one should have to feel it, ever. But I did. Oh yes, I remember it quite clearly, too; feeling the metal sinking into my skin, hearing the sickening break of my own spine, tasting blood and vomit as it crept up my throat and projected out onto the gravelly street below. I recall clearly lying on that same street, feeling the life ebb away from my own mangled body. And then, oh then I do remember looking at the bloody mess that I was, standing over it like another spectator.

It was an odd experience, to say the least.

It was a shame, too; I'd just bought that backpack, to replace the old crappy one I'd carried around with me since grade school.

My school uniform looked so strange; a blue thing, dabbled with deep, deep red.

My plaid skirt was tattered.

One of my shoes had flown off; I looked to my left, found it on the sidewalk. It looked pitiful; alone and unnoticed.

Some business guy, real yuppie type, was holding my head in his lap. He was crying real bad like a bleeding-heart, even though he didn't know me. Probably because he didn't know me. Still, I felt bad for him. He really did feel so bad for me, really did care.

Guess you can't judge a book by its cover, huh?

For a second he looked like a shining star. It reminded me of my friend, Mel. My former friend, I guess, now that I'm dead. She was into the occult, Wiccan type, real earthy, never got asked to the prom, pretended she was higher than everybody else because she wasn't popular, that kind of girl; she said she could see people's auras. Maybe it was because I was dead, but I saw this yuppie guy's for a second. And damn, was it beautiful.

I'm dead. Just needed to remind myself.

He sat there, cradled me. Even started brushing my choppy hair out of my eyes. So black and shiny in life, my bangs were now drenched in my own pouring blood. Should I be so apathetic to my own dead body? I guess not, but, it's hard to get much of a rise out of it.

Some soccer mom got on the phone, calling the cops, the hospital, the military, anybody, hell, everybody; she had tears in her eyes, mascara running down her cheeks. A real mess.

The 7:30 bus to Harwich, Pennsylvania arrived on time that day. It arrived just in time to catch me as I fumbled with my backpack, oblivious to everything around me, stuck in cruise control and crossing the street.

My parents always did say I never paid enough attention.

Guess they were right.