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Writing Short Story


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Last week, I died. Stupid as I am, I decided to go through a busy school parking lot without checking if any stupid assholes armed with an SUV were barreling through said parking lot at 70 mph to hit me head on. It was strange, dying was. Everything was in slow motion. I could see the tank of a car's bright red paint job getting closer to me with each moment. I couldn't move. When the car hit, I felt nothing. As I tumbled over the hood of the car and into the windsheild, glass flying all around me, I thought about my life. I hadn't done anything exceptionally amazing yet. I was planning on going into the medical field. I wanted to help kids get better. I wanted to DO something. And here I was, lying on some idiot's car, bleeding a river down the front of it. I could faintly hear screaming and the desperate shouts of my best friend, Joey. He was staring me in the eyes, begging for me to be alright. But I wasn't. I was dead.

In the ambulance, the paramedics were trying to bring me back, but they failed. They tried so many times, and all I could do was feel sorry for their wasted efforts. I would have cried if I could, but I was dead. When we arrived at the hospital, they sent me down to the morgue. The light above me was bright, though it didn't bother my eyes. I couldn't feel my eyes, actually. I was heartbroken when I saw who was to do the autopsy. My favorite relative, Uncle Hughe. He was my inspiration for going into the medical field. But here he was, washing his hands a few feet away from me. He was whistling a sad song until he turned around. The whistling stopped. I saw his knees shake and he dropped to his knees. I heard his loud sobs of anguish and disbelief. It hurt. A lot.

My parents were brought in not too soon after. There was a lot of crying. My older sister Sharon had sped all the way back from her college 45 minutes away. She made it in 27, so I heard. Joey was there as well. He had a large cast on and he looked exhausted. I wondered what had happened. A lot of things happened afterward to prepare for my funeral. That was the saddest part of all of this.

At the funeral, I watched from above, since I had finally been able to leave my body. My friends and relatives were all sitting in the front of the church. Students and people I didn't even know sat in the back rows. I had heard some people talking about how my parents had decided not to press charges. I was happy, actually. I wouldn't want my influence on the living to be that one of them would have his life ruined. Everyone there came up to my casket and stared at my dead body. I was wearing an ugly turtleneck sweater that my grandma had made for me years ago. I hated turtlenecks. But my neck was broken so badly that I needed to wear one to hide the scars from surgery used to straighten it. When Joey finally dragged himself up to the casket, he put a note into my stiff, dead hands. The note had a red rose drawn on the top of it. Joey had always aspired to be an artist, though he was a crappy one. This was the best work I had ever seen him or anyone do in my life. The rose almost looked as if it could prick me and draw blood that I didn't have, if I held it too hard. Joey was crying, "I'm so sorry...," he whispered. It was the first time I had seen Joey without a smile. And I had known him for 11 years. I didn't like him without a smile. I didn't know what he was sorry for until I heard my parents speak.

"...and we thank our son Everett's best friend, Joey. Joey, whom Everett had known since he was 6 years old, injured himself in an attempt to save Everett," my father said, my mother too distraught to speak. Then it hit me. Joey had a cast on because he had tried to pull me back into a line of safety. He wasn't quite fast enough, and had his arm broken in 5 places by the car. Suddenly I felt very empty. My best friend would go one feeling guilty the rest of his life, I knew he would. I floated down from the rafters of the church and toward Joey. When I was close enough to him that I felt I would surely be able to communicate with him, I spoke. Though it felt like I was shouting, my voice came out as a whisper in his ear.

"Thank you, Joey. It's alright. I'm alright. Thank you. I'm sorry," I whispered. Though it came out as a whisper, it seemed as if everyone in the church could hear me. Everyone's heads turned, looking in no particular direction. Joey broke into tears, a smile across his face. Feeling I had delayed it enough, I followed the light. That light I had been seeing since I was hit by the car. I was filled with a sort of calm that one can only experience in a dream. It was the most wonderful moment of my life, though it is now gone.

Okay, so I felt the compulsion to write a short story and this is what came out. It's really just a rough draft with many crappy chunks that annoy me at the moment and I am working on a smoother version that flows a llittle better.
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