Whoever said paramedics deserve more recognition never died.

The ambulance arrived, eventually.
The paramedics dithered around a bit, checking my pulse, my pupils.
My decency.
I was surprised they bothered; they'd hardly sped to my rescue.

They covered my body and drove me away.

Some people were crying which I found kind of strange. People die constantly, if we cried over all of them we'd save those poor countries you see on the news from drought or poverty.
Okay, maybe not poverty.

I found it strange because all I could tell you about these people was how they dressed and whether they looked cute when they cried.

Badly and no.

And yet they were crying over me. Because I'd died.
Or possibly because they'd seen my pants, who knows?

It was whilst I was contemplating my unwise skirt choice and a particularly disgusting, yellow leather jacket that the overwhelming circumstances I found what I supposed was now myself in suddenly became real.

I was dead.
I died.
I died.

I had just witnessed futile attempts to save my life, seen a man pronounce me dead and finally observed myself being covered by a blanket and driven away.

And yet there I stood.
Emitting screams that no one heard.
Breathing air I didn't need.

I thought over this morning's actions, a morning of mundanity ahead of a day I'd have happily avoided. I wasn't so sure any more.
I'd rather die than write that essay. Superstition almost had me blaming myself.

We were meant to explore Macbeth's fall from grace in his bid to gain the throne of Scotland.
“That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.”

The shadow of my mind glowed with possibilities.

Shouldn't I have wings? A Halo?
Death may not have been what I'd imagined but the afterlife seemed to be shaping up well.

And it was at this precise moment (which I had begun to consider a minor epiphany) that the woman clad in the repulsive jacket walked straight through me.

The End

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