Short Story / Never Give Up The Want To Live

       I jump the curb and accelerate down the road, gliding softly with the harsh wind. I start down the hill and the bike gains speed. My hands lightly leave the handlebars and raise out from my sides, as if I have wings. The wind against my face is peaceful, and I revel in the moment. The uphill portion of the road rises to meet me and my hands lightly replace themselves on the handlebars. I begin to pump the bike up the hill, the rotations of my feet flowing rhythmically.
Right down, inhale. Left down, exhale.
         I crest down the hill and begin the long ride down. The wheels of the bike hum louder as the wheels rotate faster. I reach the valley of the road and my body leans gently around the curve. The uphill stretch begins again and my thigh muscles scream in protest. I step off the bike and begin to slowly walk it up the hill. The front wheel hits a pine cone and I bend down to investigate.
        I pick it up the pine cone up in my hand. It is small and fragile. I feel the groves against my skin, and watch it lightly move. I close my hand tightly and crumble it to mulch. I let the wind take the pieces from my outstretched fingers.
        I stand up and continue walking the large bike up the hill. The hum of a car engine manifests itself in my ears. The sound grows louder, approaching faster, the angry motor growling its presence. The car sounds close, too close, but I do not turn to look. I am too concerned with the pine cone fragments blowing away on the wind.
          The car hits the back of the bike first. The mangled bike frame hits my body nanoseconds before the car does and throws me forward. My head makes contact with the pavement as the car wheels make contact with my legs. I feel an instant of pain, and then my body goes numb. The car leaves, horrified at what it has done. I stare up at the clouds from the pavement, my mind in unbelieving shock. I attempt to move, but I am unable. I look down upon myself and my crystal blue eyes freeze. My body is bleeding from various cuts, scrapes, and gashes. But it is my legs that take my breath away.
          They lay on the pavement like fake horror store limbs. Two tangled, bloody messes of crushed skin, sinews, gore, and bone fragments. Blood is scattered and pooling everywhere. A whimper escapes my lips as I take in the immense and horrible damage. My right hip, however, has been spared by the incident, and I see the bulge of my cell phone in my pocket. I reach for it mechanically, without a thought, and a muscle in my mass of legs twitches. The immense and sudden pain brings darkness, and I am gone.
                   .                                              .                                             .
          I awake to a great light and realize I am standing. My crystal blue eyes open and the white space assaults my retinas. I lift my hand in front of my face like I am programmed to do and wait for my eyes to adjust. They begin to focus, and shapes form. People, standing in a long line. It is the only apparition in the white void.
          A sign appears a few feet in front of me. “LINE STARTS HERE,” it says, “Please wait your turn.” I can see no alternative. I move robotically to the last position in line, and am relieved when it moves quickly. It ends at a man, seated at a desk. He is pale, old, and intelligently spoken. His eyes are cold, logical, and the same color as mine. I get closer, and begin to hear small parts of conversation.
          “Would you like to go back to live your life, or would you like to be someone else?” The old man asks a frantic woman. She looks like a housewife, and her hair is a disheveled mess.
          “Please,” she replies, “Just make me someone rich.”
          She disappears, and the line advances. Soon, it is my turn. The old man looks up into my eyes and everything hits me like a wrecking ball.
          “…Am…Am I dead?” The words are choppy and stuttered.
          “Does it matter?” The old man’s response startles me and makes me think, and I realize I am not breathing. Do you need to breathe when you’re dead?
          “I am only here,” he continues, “for one purpose.” I stare plainly at him as he stares back. I recognize a small, wavy, gold line around the iris of his eye. It transfixes me. “Would you rather return to the world as yourself or another person?”
          I think for a moment. “Is this a trick question?” I ask, skeptical.
          ”No, it is not. If you choose to live as another person then I will be happy to oblige,” he replies, a trace of a smile on his lips.
          “But would it be real?”
          “Is anything real?” His response makes me think and I do not reply.
          “Reality is nothing more than what we perceive it to be,” he continues. “It is merely what we believe to be true. For example, it is fact that your body is dead.” I drop my eyes a bit and shuffle my feet. “You however, do not believe yourself to be dead, and therefore, in this reality, you are alive.” I raise my eyes to meet his. “So really, reality doesn’t matter. All that matters, is that you have a decision to make.”
          I think of the people I could chose to be. I could be beautiful, rich, famous. I could be someone completely different. I think of my home life; the family that fights constantly, the boyfriend that left me for another girl, the parents that I can’t seem to please, the old friends that are never there.
          A thought enters my head as my pessimism grows. But I thought you wanted to be strong? I stop all my thought processes and begin to remind myself of the good things. Dad was getting less angry, Aunt Diane was pregnant, my little cousin was turning five soon. The memories and possibilities rush at me. My parents are getting happier, I had met a new boy, I was turning seventeen soon, but mostly, even through the recent bad events, I still found happiness.
          I look up from my thoughts to meet the old man’s crystal blue, gold rimmed eyes. “I’d like to live my own life please, not someone else’s.” A light smile crosses my face and the old man’s becomes warm.
          “Good girl.” He smiles, and the world goes black.
                                 .                                          .                                .
          I open my eyes and find myself on my own street, my bike and legs intact. I walk the bike to the backyard and place it in the shed. I notice everything as I walk up to my room; the leaves changing colors, the wind blowing them across the ground. I reach my room, catch my reflection, and surprise myself.  I look again and gasp. A small, wavy, gold line has formed around my retina. My eyes have become a more beautiful shade of crystal blue. I laugh and silently thank the old man. I stare for a while, and then grab my coat and head outside. I find a few pine cones and place them in my pockets. I laugh at myself and keep looking. There’s nothing like dying to make you see the beauty in what you normally overlook.