Here’s another totally different story and it’s first chapter. I know, I know. When are you gonna actually just commit to one plot and character, Jon? you ask impatiently. Well, I have a pretty good feeling about this one actually. Maybe I’ll write the one about me and the ex at some point, but for now I’d rather do something that’s a little less depressing. So, like all the others, it’s a first draft and very rough so be kind haha. Hope you enjoy it.
Death is an interesting thing. I always thought the second before my death, that all the accomplishments, loves, and chapters of my life would flash before my eyes like one of those old-fashioned slide projectors. But it wasn’t like that at all. There was no white light or spiritual contentment or angels lifting me into the heavens. In fact, I’m glad the people still on Earth haven’t figured it out yet, because, frankly, I think everyone would be disappointed. And for the religious folks out there, this may not be the book for you. Let’s just say, you were wrong. But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here. Let me take you back to the day that would (unbeknownst to me, at the time) be my last. At least, my last on Earth.
It was like any other crisp, chilly January morning in upstate New York. I woke up to the sound of the leaf blowers roaring outside my bedroom window, made myself a double shot caramel macchiato, and sat at my kitchen counter with my laptop, journal, and pen. I was a writer. At least, I wanted to be.
So every morning, with bright eyes and motivation running through my caffeinated veins, I would go onto my blog. I always checked the stats first, which, on a good day would present to me the whopping six people who had viewed my website the night before. But despite the blog’s failure to launch, I was determined to keep expanding my portfolio of work, and prayed some day maybe someone would see it and want to publish something. So every morning, I spent my time writing poems and stories until my coffee cup was empty. Or until my eyes starting tearing up from staring at the computer screen for three hours, whichever came first.
Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed that one day my poems would be published and my name would be known as one of the greatest poets of all time. But I guess now it doesn’t really matter, does it.
So after I finished my writing for the day, I liked to go for short run. The development my apartment was in had beautifully manicured paths that weaved their way around the premises and into the surrounding woods. Looking back now, I wish I hadn’t been quite so ambitious that day, but I thought it would be a good idea to extend my usual two mile run into a six-mile run into town and back.
The town of Clearwater was a picturesque, quaint little hamlet located an hour North of the city. It was mainly known for its prestigious school system and, less formally, its plethora of middle-aged pretentious housewives. It was also known as the town where the famous Quaker, William M. Hanley lived in the late 1800s. He was the lead writer and founder of one of New York City’s most popular newsletter, the New York Chronicle. His house, restored ten years prior, stood in the center of the town’s flourishing downtown.
It was only a three mile run to get into town, but most people avoided it because of the town’s infamous lack of sidewalks and street lamps. Like most northern New York suburbs, the road were filled with sharp turns and steep hills, making driving, and especially running in this time of year particularly hazardous.
I was about a third of a mile away from the town’s well-known coffee shop, The Blue Cow. It had the best dirty vanilla chai in the tristate area, and I, having the severe caffeine addiction that I did, was on a first-name basis with the owner, Jerry.
The entrance to The Circle, the downtown area filled with little ornate shops and extremely overpriced restaurants, from the freeway could be a bit tricky if you were unfamiliar with the area. But I had lived there since I was five years old, and knew the one-way streets and traffic circles like the back of my hand. I just wish I could’ve said the same thing for the idiot driving the Black Range Rover with New Jersey plates.
I reached a stop sign right before the bridge that went over the train tracks and into The Circle and came to a complete stop like the good law-abiding citizen that I was. On the right side of me was the road that led to the entrance of the freeway and in front of me was the bridge. To the left was the exit of the freeway. I looked both ways and proceeded to cross the road to get to the first sidewalk I’d seen in miles.
Right as I began walking across, my iPod started to skip, playing one line of Rihanna’s “We Found Love” repeatedly. I continued to walk, but must have been distracted as I look down to try and start the song over. Because the next thing I know a woman behind me with her window open was yelling “watch out!” and before I could turn to see the Range Rover hurdling towards me, its harsh metal bumper slammed its weight against my body, shoving me forcefully to the ground. But before I slipped into unconsciousness, all I could see was the blue and yellow New Jersey license plate, and a pair of brown worker boots, covered in tiny dots of white and blue paint, hastily making their way towards my closing eyelids.
And then my eyes opened.