the story continues...

She opened her eyes and was no longer herself, but looking down at herself. The streets were full of concerned people flocking in her direction. The small car that hit her was pulled off to the side, the young women driver sobbing hysterically. The crowd thickened, she could not understand what anyone is saying, and she was confused. She tried to sit up, and then felt like she was floating. She was suddenly above the crowd, above her own body, observing the scene from a bird’s perspective. There was a little puddle of blood underneath her head from where she hit the ground, but other than that she looked peaceful. Her red curls were neatly spread around her face as if they were arranged that way. Her limbs did not look in any way uncomfortably placed, she seemed to have fallen backward gracefully. Wait, she did not fall, she was hit.

“Oh God, I was hit by a car,” she said out loud, but no one heard. “I’m not in my body, what’s happening to me?” she yelled to the un-answering masses. The young man closest to her body checked her breathing and shook his head sadly. However she knew better, he was wrong. She still had a pulse, she was still alive.

“No, no! Check again, my heart is beating! I can’t be dead, I am right here! I am on vacation, this can’t happen to me!” Her cries were not noticed, her desperation rising. People were giving up on her; they were going to let her die. She was just unconscious, she needed CPR. The edge of her vision started to blur, was fading. Her limbs started to tingle, probably the last feeling she would ever have in them. She clung to that feeling, desperately trying to keep it for as long as possible. The young man and a few of his friends were about to pick her body up and move it out of the street. It was all ending.

“Stop! Put her down, allongée! I mean basta!” A voice like music, black notes flowing on the corners of her fading mind brought her momentarily back from where she was slipping. The crowd parted to admit the cheerless man from the café across the street. His once miserable face was now filled with concern. She could now tell from the sound of his lovely voice that he was French, not a native Italian like she always assumed. She could see that his light hair did not fit in with the multitude of dark heads surrounding her. He knelt down beside her, took her small wrist in his big hand and checked her pulse. He instantly sprung into action when he did not feel the pump of blood. He confidently opened her mouth and blew in, then did compressions on her chest. The tingling in her extremities started to change to a warm feeling. Her sight became clearer. Slowly she started to descend, getting closer and closer to her body. With a gasp she was back.

She opened her eyes with fright as air returned to her lungs with a rush. The people surrounding her all let out a cheer filling her line of sight with smiling faces. Her ribs hurt from where they had been compressed to get her heart started again. She coughed and turned over on her side, embarrassed that people were seeing her like this.

“Come; let’s get you out of the street. It looks like you hit your head, you should get that looked at.” She felt a firm hand on her arm and let it lead her away. She staggered forward, leaning on the helpful arm. When she finally looked up, she was staring into the kind, once again haggard face of the Frenchmen who had saved her life. Unintentionally, she had made a friend, and it had almost killed her.