It was the brink of winter, an early cold arriving on soft winds. A thin veil of frost shrouded classroom windows from wayward gazes, allowing only the faintest of glimpses of the interior through various doodles drawn into the ice. The majority of the designs were crude and painfully immature, created by bored students who couldn't simply watch the minutes pass by as they awaited the end of class. I knew very well who had drawn what, but I was too tired to pick fights or call anyone out. With a mere two hours of sleep the night before, I was already of a mind to curse out the rowdy students, go home, and never return. All I could do was restrain myself and bide my time, rambling on and on about the events prior to the American Civil War until nightfall when I could rest.
I have an unfortunate knack for making plans that never come to fruition. My mother often told me, "It's only life!"— as if simply contenting myself with foul fortune would ease the sting of what befalls me. Perhaps I would have been better off heeding her advice, but I digress. My death was wholly unexpected on such a mundane Friday. As the final bell dismissed the remaining students and signaled the nearing end of my own, an exiting voice called out to me.
"See you later, Mrs. Elise!"
That was, of course, Avery Jackson, a preppy blonde girl who had— for better or for worse—been placed in my final class of the day. She referred to me as such in a playful, mocking tone for the sole reason that she knew it irked me to no end. Avery was a close friend's niece, leading me to be far too lenient when it came to addressing and joking with me during school hours. Rather than responding to her farewell, I instead sought to correct her misnomer.
"Ms.!"
I noted the smirk on her face as she passed through the doorway, though I only realized why it was she seemed so pleased after she had already left. She often called me Mrs. to get under my skin because she knew I was unmarried, an oddity for a woman of my age, and in my efforts to correct her, I hadn't realized she called me by my first name as well. She had beaten me and she knew it.
As always, I remained for an hour after the students were dismissed to prepare for the days to come, grade papers, and other such chores. I couldn't help but sigh, eyeing the clock. My gaze shifted to the stack of ungraded papers that remained on my desk, barely reduced from when I began. It would probably be fine to simply handle it at a later date— surely my students weren't anxious to receive them back, I thought. Retrieving my keys and purse, I rose from my chair and paced towards the exit. My spine began to ache as I moved, an unfortunate side-effect of 33 years of poor posture.
Approximately 15 minutes later, I was homebound, driving through my city's main road perhaps a bit faster than the law would suggest. My exhaustion had peaked, and it was about time for me to sleep. It was too early for most, and I likely would be skipping a meal, but I didn't much care. It wasn't as if I had anyone to provide for. My thoughts drifted as I neared an intersection, and without a second thought, I blitzed through a red traffic light. A large truck speared the side of my car, sending fragments of my windshield flying throughout my vehicle. The rest was a blur of stabbing pains, blood, tears, and pained cries as my consciousness faded away.