The last thought that crossed John Lowell's mind on his way to work that day was whether or not he'd get anywhere with the cute blonde he was taking out that night. The small, disconnected part of his brain that regulated the more mundane aspects of his day-to-day existence, like breathing and such, was functioning as it should be, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness was a vague dread of yet another day behind the drive-through window of a fast food restaurant. All in all, though, nothing remarkable.
      Then came the collision. Two tons of steel crashed into his body, dragging him to the ground. The impact alone shattered several of his limbs. The vehicle, unable to stop, crushed his body into the pavement. Had anyone been listening, they would have heard a muffled crunching sound as his bones crumpled like toy blocks. Blood trickled from a large crack on his skull and formed a crimson pool beneath his dismembered body. Where there had been a moving, living being only moments before, there was now an unrecognizable, quivering mass of bone, muscle and blood. His heart stopped functioning. The internal circuitry that kept his body working as it should be abruptly shut down. Life ceased to exist.
      John Lowell, however, was aware of none of this. The crash occurred so quickly that he had no time to reflect upon what was happening. Death, the inevitable closure, had come to John Lowell as a complete surprise. If he had been capable of forming thoughts at that point, John may have felt cheated, perhaps even a bit angry at the fact that he was not even allowed the privileges of a casual observer to his own demise. He may have felt sardonically amused that the thought he would carry with him into eternity was one of such complete unimportance. Perhaps he would have been sad or regretful that his existence had to come to an end. But John Lowell felt none of these things. It was simply...black.

      The girl absently twirled a lock of shocking purple hair around the tip of her finger. The cracked brown vinyl that covered the seat of her friend Paul's car felt hot and sweaty beneath her fishnet-stockinged legs. Her head ached with the fuzzy, annoying pain of having drank a bit too much in too short a time. Raven (she was also known to a small and exclusive group of individuals as Kelly Marie Blume, but she vehemently denied this after adopting her pseudonym) was anxious for Paul to arrive at his destination so she could get out of the cramped, smoky vehicle- not to mention that she felt that she would be lucky to make it to wherever it was that they were headed with all her appendages intact. Paul was "chemically altered", to put it nicely. A more blunt person would probably have phrased it as "shitfaced".
      The next thing that Raven would remember would be the sound of skidding breaks. The car swerved wildly...somewhere from the front of the car a male voice uttered a string of expletives. Then came the loud, sickening -thud-. The car skidded to a stop.
      Only after her throat began to throb did Raven realize that she had been screaming. Music was still blaring from the tinny car speakers, yet the air seemed thick with silence. Suddenly very sober, Raven looked around the car, unbelieving, at her two dead seatmates. The looks upon their lifeless faces would shadow Raven's memory for years to come. She did not see the flashing red lights of the ambulance. She was unaware of the blood trickling from the small gash on her forehead. All she could see were the faces of the people beside her...frozen for eternity in expressions of horror.

      The little girl looked up, shocked by the sound of screeching tires. She had been drawing a picture on the sidewalk of the sort that only held meaning to the seven-year old girl who was drawing it, but at this new development, she immediately dropped her chalk. Whatever was going on at the other end of the block was certainly more exciting. Her mother had anxiously peered out the window at the deafening noise, but despite all admonishments to stay where she was, the little girl ran off to get a closer look.
      By the time Kristy reached the other end of Shermann Street, the accident had already occurred. With some trepidation, Kristy approached the car. She could hear the hysterical screams from the sole survivor of the crash coming from within. Then she caught a glimpse of the disfigured corpse crushed beneath the vehicle's tires. Kristy gasped, jumping back- but just a little. Kristy, like most seven-year-olds, had seen her share of deaths on television...but never before had she seen a dead body in real life. She was both repulsed and fascinated.
      Her mother had rushed to the end of the block. Finding Kristy standing openmouthed before the corpse, her mother whisked her away, distracting her with the promise of ice cream after lunch.      By the second bowl of chocolate and vanilla swirl, Kristy had all but forgotten the day's more morbid events...they remained filed away in the farthest reaches of her mind.

      The driver of the ambulance halted his vehicle at the corner of Shermann Street. This was the spot; there was no mistaking it. It was the kind of car accident that he had become accustomed to seeing quite often in his 20 years as a paramedic. He paused for only a moment to reflect upon the macabre nature of his line of work before going about his professional duties.
      No need to check the guy under the car, he thought, that one's beyond repair. He turned his attention to the car's passengers. Four white males, probably to be listed as DOA on the hospital's records, one survivor- a white female with a mop of bright purple hair.
      Sighing, the paramedic loaded the remains of the crumpled man into a large blue bodybag. All part of everyday routine.