"I like the sad eyes, bad guys, mouth full of white lies."
Jaelyn Whittemore is exactly like her twin brother Jackson. Narcissistic, pompous, and all together obsessed with popularity. It's not until a cold dark night when Jaelyn meets Scott McCall...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN; AFTERLIFE
JAELYN When I was younger I use to imagine my own funeral. Not in a morbid way with family members crying over my casket or anything. But I'd pick out the type of flowers I wanted, and the music that would play.
At the time I was about thirteen so the flowers were pretty much anything pink, and the music was The Climb from the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack.
The point is I never focused much on the dying part, but rather how everything looked. I guess I'm just shallow like that.
Imagining my own funeral seemed quiet scandalous at the time, and it was a secretive kind of fear that I experienced from it. For awhile I even convinced myself I knew what dying felt like.
I thought it was like getting on the space shot, the amusement park ride. The way all of your adrenaline builds up in your bones as you shoot into the atmosphere, then you drop. It's like your skin is ripping off of your muscles, and you're flying out of your own body.
That's what I thought death was like, boy was I stupid.
The truth is, the living rarely get to experience the feeling of death, until the moment you do.
It's a distinct feeling, and you know it the moment it flows through your veins and shocks your heart.
I felt it when I saw the black blood run down my arms, when everything went numb and I couldn't even here my own screams.
The nurses had to restrict me before the ambulance could take off. When they finally got me to stay still the ride to the hospital was torturous, I just wanted the feeling to go away. The death wrapped around my heart to subside, I wanted to feel life.
When the nurses rolled me into the hospital the first thing I herd was my father's voice, shouting and demanding to know what was wrong. They said the needed him to get out of the way, that I needed X-Rays and something about a psych consult.
What, I not crazy, I thought, I'm dying. And I'd have told them that if I could speak. Finally I was wheeled into a room, a nurse putting an IV into my arm.
"She's not stable, we can't take her into X-Ray yet," a voice sounded,
"But she could have multiple fractures-"
"And taking her into X-Ray now when she isn't stable could make her slip into a coma." The nurses stopped their bickering and my eyes started to flutter.
"She's slipping," a nurse called out.
"what's wrong with her? She shouldn't be this out of it."
"Find out who her last doctor was, I need her carts." As I listened to the chatter fill the room around me I couldn't help but feel some serenity. Getting wrapped up in the medical talk of what I guessed was two or three nurses.
