Friday, November 11, 2005

day 1

“you are going to die.”

they say that when you face death, your life passes before your eyes. that’s never happened before, but i guess it happened this time. what they don’t tell you is that each memory is just another face of death.

age three. i’m taking my big wheel down the hill. i shouldn’t remember it, but i’ve been told enough about it that i do. too young. too stupid. too small to slow myself down. the grass around me is passes by too fast. the concrete gutter comes too quick. it took eleven stitches to stop the blood and orthopedic braces at eleven to fix the smile.

age fourteen. once again i’m heading downhill. mountain bike instead of a big wheel. i’m in control this time. nothing can stop me… except that groove in the dirt road. now i’m flying over the handlebars, colliding with a jagged rock, and skidding across the dirt path. gauze, bandages, soap, bactine, neosporin, tape, scissors, and i still have a three inch scar that turns violet in the cold.

age twenty-four. first, i’m checking my blind-spot. second, i’m saying “oh shit” to myself. third, a white flash of shattered glass sprays into my face as my silver ‘91 honda accord bounces off the front of a red and white semi. i find myself hopping over a curb, going through a fence, and resting safely in a car lot. nobody is hurt, but my car is proclaimed dead.

age twenty-six. this afternoon. he is giving me the bad news. dressed in a sky blue dress shirt and white lab coat, his silver stethoscope reflects the fluorescent light from the ceiling. already, i forgot how he said it. i’m going to die. that’s the gist of it. for some reason really i don’t care. i guess it just hasn’t hit yet.

i took the bus back to work, grabbed my things, and started walking home. it’s a bit overcast tonight. no rain, but the humidity mixed in with the cold air makes it hard to breathe. eventually i get to my empty apartment, finish up the rest of a leftover salad, and crawl in bed. i don’t feel like telling anyone. even if i did, there is nobody to tell; it’s just me, my bed, my pillow, and the darkness. as i lay and try to clear my head, the day’s events seem abstract and disconnected; bits of individual scenes with no chronological order. beside me, red glowing numbers of an alarm clock incrementally rise with each passing minute. as i watch them, my eyes get heavy and i swear they are counting down. right before i fall asleep, it hits.


  1. fyi, this is not a true story, he wrote the story for a class project.

  2. I'm glad it's not true. Everybody keeps asking me is Loyd is really dying. It was creepy.

  3. First,Hey it is too late or too early for an april fool joke.
    Second your have total 15 stiches, inside for 8 outside for 7.
    I remember so clearly for the day. It was one of tough day to be mother.

  4. i'm not dying. this is a first part of a short story i'm writing for my philosophy through literature class.

    sorry to any of those who wondered, worried, questioned, bought plane tickets, etc..

    on a side note... the word verification for this comment is "sexxi". i know. i am. ;)

  5. The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

    Mark Twain


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