Love and Let Die
an excerpt

This is how I die.
I am walking along the side of the road, kicking at rocks with shoes that I don’t recognize, wearing clothes that I probably stole from the man that happens to share my house because I can’t afford the rent for the place with the income that I have. I don’t like to wear clothes of my own when I walk anywhere, because most of the clothes that I own are far too nice, except for two pairs of jeans and assorted tee-shirts. Of course, I forgot to do the laundry, so none of them are clean.
The traffic is light, maybe two or three cars every few minutes or so – it’s the type of traffic where a driver could change his own pants and his shirt, and maybe even shave, and unless there’s a cop on the side of the road, he won’t have even the slightest problem. Still, there are enough cars that I can notice them coming if I am attentive enough. Of course, a few people slow down to see whether I have my thumb stuck out – I don’t – but most of them hurry on by, assuming that I am just walking, which I am.
At some point, I stop and look at the street to my left, thinking of the timing of what I am about to do. It has to be perfect, or else I ruin the entire plan, and I can no longer execute what I want. It is not as if I am doing this out of desperation. I have thought through this multiple times, and I am sure that this is what I want to do with the rest of my life. Maybe I should say this is what I want to do with my death, since I am in fact getting myself killed.
I spot a driver, specifically a driver that is not paying attention to the road. My day becomes all that much better when I see that a truck driver is not even looking out the wind shield. I realize that I probably should not do this, since it will put the driver into a lot of litigation, but then again, it doesn’t really matter to me, since I’ll be dead. I really just want people to say the truth at my funeral, but that won’t matter, either. People’s thoughts about how I died, how I lived, and why I died the way I did and why I lived the way that I did won’t matter to me. I’ll be dead.
So I step into the road about five seconds before the truck slams into me. The speed of such a large and heavy object propels me backwards, shattering some bones in the process. A few of the ribs that only break puncture my lungs, leaving me trying to breathe with nothing. The impact on the concrete sends the back of my skull into my brainstem, and darkness comes to my eyes.

Then a phone call takes me away from looking out of my window, and I have to answer the phone.
Well, it was an interesting day dream, at least. Not that I know how it feels to die or anything, but I imagine that getting killed by an oncoming truck would feel something like that. Hopefully the truck doesn’t run over you after it hits you. A corpse with tire tread imprints just doesn’t make a good impression on the coroners, even if the tires make a good impression on you.