What the... OH. MY. GOD.
No no NO.
I screamed. You would have too.
There, in the centre of a growing crowd of shell-shocked strangers, lay a somewhat mangled body.
I screamed again. No one noticed; everyone was screaming. But this was my body, no one should be screaming as loud as I.
And why the hell wasn't anyone calling an ambulance?!
I moved closer, edging round the crowd towards a gap through which I could see better, all the while panic pulsing through my veins. I caught sight of myself properly and immediately wished I hadn't.
Splayed on the ground, I couldn't help but notice how fragile I looked. My limbs lay at funny angles, covered in scratches and marks. Blood oozed on to the smooth tarmac from several deep gashes along my right forearm.
I glanced at my face for the first time as I heard sirens in the distance. My eyes were half closed so that only the whites were visible. A strand of my long, dark hair was stuck to a small cut across my cheek; the rest lay around me, tangled and matted with blood.
My inner thespian had always imagined my death as tragic and picturesque. I had dark thoughts - this scene had been well rehearsed.
It is NOT meant to happen like THIS!
Sixteen years old and I was killed by a bus on the way to school.
My body was surrounded by strangers who frankly looked more interested than concerned.
With my long, dark hair - my pride and joy - looking like a birds nest and in my school uniform with my inappropriately short skirt.
Where were the ravaged cliffs, the wild fields, the shotgun?
Where was the beautiful man and his desperate attempt to save my tragic life?
Where on earth is the ambulance?!
Not that it mattered, I was quite obviously dead.
Where was my beautiful dress? Typical, I would die in my uniform, on a day I wore that ridiculous skirt that -
Oh my God you can see my pants.