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Life can seem long, but in the most important days, life can seem longer than one could ever imagine. Life can make days seem like years; make seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like days, in this case, minutes and seconds seemed like hours and minutes.
I was driving, that’s it. I wasn’t on the phone. I wasn’t texting nor had I any alcohol in me. It just seemed like that day wasn’t my lucky day.
I pulled up to an intersection on a hill. I was just trying to get across the highway. I could barely see the road crossing. It was a beautiful spring day. Flowers and tree blooms had just woken up from their slumber and began to show their colors. Fresh green grass sat at the road’s edges and the sky seemed empty of clouds and limitless. A scent of freshly cut grass and air filled my nostrils. Today would be a day one would seldom think anything bad could happen, but that one would be wrong.
I looked both ways and the road seemed empty from what I could muster. My foot eased forward on the gas petal to my blue Saturn and the car eased forward. The roads were clear, I could’ve sworn it. I could’ve bet my soul that I thought the roads were clear, but as I pulled forward into the intersection, a large truck carrying a trailer sped towards my side, swerving a little bit. And time seemed to stop.
All of this happened in about a two-minute period:
The truck sped forward as I floored my car. I was almost across the road when the truck slammed into the back door of my side of the car. My car spun right in front another car in which the small car slammed into my passenger side, sending me spinning straight towards a drop off that started the edge of a sea of trees and bushes. Unfortunately for me, the car flipped once; twice, then a third time straight into a tree, good first.
Branches and glass broke; metal tore and bent, and I flew, back first, straight into a tree at fifty-five miles per hour.
I heard several things snap in a sickening way. I thought they were my ribs and maybe a few vertebrae. Smoke and humidity now replaced the once intriguing scent of fresh air. What was left of my car caught fire next to a puddle of blood that led to me.
Pain. That’s all I could feel. I couldn’t feel the gentle breeze now stinging my open wounds. Pain blocked out everything. I barely heard an ambulance drive up and two EMT’s run up to me. I did hear one thing. It was one of the EMT’s.
“This one will never make it,” one of them said.
“What about the others?” the other one asked. Blood blurred everything but the two men’s blue uniforms.
“The one in the car’s fine,” the first one said. “The other one is fine to, but he is intoxicated.”
Here’s what happened. John Schmitt was drunk but refused to let his wife drive him home. Instead he made the wrong choice and that wrong choice cost me my life.
I found my self in a library. Rows and rows and rows of brown wooden shelves stood in front of me, stocked with books. Each one had a unique name. No two books were named or designed the same way. Light filled the room, but I couldn’t find any light.
I was drawn forward, as if my body had a mind of its own. A book; one book in particular caught my attention. It was a big red book with a golden leather lining. The title shocked me most of all. It was my name; Paul Jones. My fingers fumbled around the spine of the book. My other hand opened the cover, trembling. A table of contents awaited me on the inside cover; there wasn’t a acknowledgements page, not even a copyright page. The chapters dumbfound me; Thoughts, Words, Actions. As I flip through the page I am only more ashamed. This book lists every thought, action, or words I’ve said and most of them aren’t very prideful. I couldn’t let anyone see this book. I tried to hide it behind other books but it seemed to tall and the gold lining looks as if it’s glowing. I hid it under my dirty white shirt and walked over to the couches. There I tried to stuff the book in between the seats but the book seemed to thick. I then tried to stuff it under the couch but the crack seemed to small. There was no use in hiding it.
If I check it out, I thought. I’ll never return it so no one can see it.
I walked over to the checkout desk to find the one person I did not want to see this book. He had long wavy brown hair and distinctive and loving blue eyes. Two scars claimed spots on His palms that looked as if someone sent a nail through His hands, which had happened. Jesus looked at me in a pure white robe. He motioned for me to sit with him on a couch.
Before we could open the book to look through it, a new figure appeared. He wore a blue denim shirt and a white T-shirt underneath that both were stained with blood. A nametag on his jacket read, “John Schmitt.” This man caused my death. He had short black hair that hugged his head with several tattoos on his large and hairy arms.
“Where am I?” John asked. Jesus’ stare looked as a child looking at a stranger. The man looked at Jesus and began to tremble.
“Am I dead?” John asked. Jesus’ stare was just as intense. “No, I can’t be dead. I have a wife and three kids. I can’t leave now, I’m not ready.”
“For it is written,” Jesus began. “Whoever believes in Him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son.” As Jesus finished, the hands of demons grabbed John’s ankles and pulled him down to the Lake of Fire. Jesus then turned to me.
“Reading this is unnecessary, I forgive you,” Jesus said. “Let’s join everyone in paradise.”
A door opened that I had not seen before. The smell of chilly fresh air and campfire smoke intrigued me. I could see all of my loved ones, and I joined them in paradise.