image provided by Dez Pain at SXC, 2006.

Her death, when she saw it coming, was not unexpected, but it was not the death she would have chosen given the chance.

And she had given it thought. She'd thought about perhaps dying a frail, wan death in a sturdy bed with crisp, cotton sheets folded just so under her hands, which would be resting cooly one on the other in gentle repose on her lap. She'd be surrounded by the the grown up children she didn't have, and needed to hurry up having if this was to be a viable option. There would be pale sunshine warming her clear, freckled skin, and the sound of outside drifting in and out gently as her breath slipped away and the clock ticked on.

Or, maybe, she'd die laughing one night out with the girls, and they'd be laughing too until she dropped her bacardi and coke and they realised she'd really stopped. That'd almost be funny.

Or, maybe, she'd fall asleep and never wake from dreams that took her to the centre of herself where her being would simply dissolve into the tiniest of particles drifting from her on her last breath into the furthest reaches of the universe. It seemed improbably, zen, but she liked this death best.

She'd thought about it.

So, what was happening to her? Finding herself suddenly airborne, arse over tit, and turning and falling and the central reservation converging on her, and cars around her in collision. This was not the death she wanted, she thought, as the airbag exploded, knocking her breath from her; and then she thought no more.