DIE TONIGHT 》 Ryden

9:23am

RYAN'S POV

At first I figure everything is fine. For one, I can still here Bowie. Then there's the fact that I am lying on the road, opening my eyes to the blazing sun, but I don't flinch. I stand up, when I look down, the black jeans, white David Bowie shirt, leather jacket, and Converse all look the same when I left Brendon's house. There's lots of ambulances, firetrucks, and police cars here. I see my car, it doesn't even look like a car anymore. It's a metal skeleton, without seats, without passengers. Which means somehow I must have been thrown from the car. But how am I okay? How is there not a single drop of blood on me?

I brush off my hands on my jeans, and start walking toward the officers, "Hey-uh, sir do you know what's going on?" I call out, but nobody notices me. They seem to be focused on the minivan, that's flipped over on it's side. I get closer to understand what's going on.

"In the minivan, female, late thirties, DOA, possible overdose. Child no older than five thrown from vehicle-"

I spin away, I run back toward the ditch where I came from and I see a hand sticking out.

I turn my head, a few paramedics are coming toward my direction, "Hey-I-I think I found.." But when I look closer, I see the small metal glint of a silver bracelet with tiny guitar and a sun and moon. The one Brendon gave to me on my twenty-fifth birthday. The one I put on last night. I look down at my wrist. I'm still wearing it now. I edge closer, and realize that it's not a child lying there. It's me.

The blood from my chest has seeped through Bowie's face, giving color to the once white shirt, and through my black jeans, making them look wet, and is now pooling in the ditch where I lie.

My left leg is askew, the skin and muscle are peeled back, so that I can see white streaks of bone. My eyes are closed, and my dark brown hair is rusted with blood.

This isn't right. This cannot be happening. I went to a party at Brendon's last night. This isn't real. I must be dreaming. I'm still asleep in his room. I never left his house. No! Stop. Please stop! Please wake up! I yell into the warm air. I stare down at my wrist, the one that does not look touched by blood and gore. I pinch it as hard as I can.

I don't feel a thing.

I've had nightmares before- falling nightmares, playing-a-concert-and-not-knowing-words nightmares, Cape Town nightmares- but I have always been able to wake myself up when they go from bad to worse. Usually by opening my eyes, lifting my head off the pillow and gasping for air, putting a stop to the horror movie behind my eyelids. I try again. Wake up! I scream. Wake up! Wakeupwakeupwakeup! But I can't.

I don't.

Am I dead? I actually have to ask myself this. Am I dead? At first it seemed that no shit, I obviously am!  And that the standing-here-watching part was temporary, an intermission for that bright light or some shit and life-flashing-before-me would take me wherever I'm going next.

But am I dead? The me who is lying on the edge of the road, my leg hanging down into the ditch surrounded by a team of men and women who are preforming frantically over me, and plugging my veins with I don't know what. I'm half naked, stripped down to my boxers, they've cut off my jeans to work faster at my leg, they've taken off my leather jacket, yet they've ripped my shirt open. Revealing the hickeys on my chest Brendon gave me last night. Embarrassed, I turn away.

The police have blocked off the perimeter of the scene and instructing cars in both directions to turn back, the road is closed. They've politely offered alternate routes to take them where the people need to be. They must have places to go, but a lot of them don't turn around. Many exit their cars to watch what's going on. Some take out their phones and take photos of the accident, crying. And that's when I start to wonder if any of them realize that it's me. How fast will this end up online? Maybe they don't know who I am, but are still mourning over this fatal crash.