I can't get the image of Neda out of my mind. I'm not too proud or macho to admit that yesterday night, as I thought about her sprawled on the Tehran pavement, I cried.

Neda is the young woman who was shot by Iranian thugs near a protest march Saturday. Last night, CNN ran the video of her immediately after she took a bullet to the heart (man, these jackbooted theocrats sure know how to make a dramatic point.) I was struck by the look on her face as her chest cavity filled with blood. I couldn't stop myself from imagining what she was feeling and thinking.

I am Neda. This is the story of the rest of my life.

It is beastly hot in Tehran today. This car feels like an oven. We are headed to the protest at Amir-Abad. Mr. _____, my music teacher is driving. My dear friend, _____, sits in the back seat. The traffic on Kargar Avenue is at a standstill due to the turnout. I am excited - not even the threats and warnings of the authorities can silence us.

I wish we could leave the car right here. I can poke my head out the window and see the throngs up ahead.

"Let's go!" I say.

"Be patient," Mr. _____ says, but I can't.

I turn to _____. "Shall we walk?" I ask.

_____ seems hesitant; he shrugs. Mr. _____ is worried. "No, please. Let's stay together," he says.

"I'm sorry, Mr. _____, I can't sit here. I'm going to get out for some fresh air until we move again."

I step out of the car. It is no cooler out here but I feel better for being able to move. Still, there's not a hint of a breeze. Some protesters are running away from the square, gagging from tear gas. _____ opens his door and joins me. He grabs my elbow.

"Watch it!" he nearly shouts as security forces on scooters zoom toward us. They are chasing protesters and swinging their batons indiscriminately. As they pass, _____ points toward the nearby rooftops. "Look," he says. "Snipers."

Indeed, snipers seem to be on every rooftop. In fact, the man on the nearest building is looking directly at us! Now he aims his rifle. Is he mad? I think he is pointing it at us!

I can see his deep brown eyes. His right eye squints as he focuses through the rifle's sight. The fools - if they are trying to frighten us, they are succeeding!

A brilliant arrow of orange-white light emanates from the barrel of his rifle. He grimaces against the recoil. As such, he appears distraught, as if he wishes he hadn't really pulled the trigger. My heart is filled with compassion for this man who seems powerless in the face of forces much greater than he. I want to touch his face, to console him. I want to tell him I love him.

Someone punches me in the chest. Can this be a single man striking me? It is more like the collective might of ten men! My heart is burning. The pavement begins to undulate. What inconceivable madness! Can you imagine that an earthquake is striking Tehran at this moment?

_____ screams in my ear. I want to say, "Stop screaming, you'll break my eardrum!" But rather than chide him I am thankful to him, for he has caught me before I fall. He holds me close and gently guides me to the pavement. His face is contorted like a gargoyle's.

My chest is on fire. "I'm burning," I whisper. "I'm burning."

Suddenly, many men hover over me. They have their hands on my chest and are leaning with all their weight on it. I want to tell them to stop but I can't. My throat and mouth are filled with warm liquid. If they don't allow me to sit up, I will choke on it.

Time has nearly stopped. Everyone moves in slow motion. But the burning in my chest has stopped. I'm swallowing the warm liquid, as well. That is a relief. I won't choke to death now.

Although I really don't care. I am so tired. I could close my eyes and go to sleep right here on the pavement. Isn't that strange?

For an instant, I feel distant panic. The world - even though it moves in slow motion - is moving without me. The world, I fear, is leaving me.

There, to my right, people are standing on the opposite curb, watching us, pointing. Some are crying. Something is horribly wrong. A frisson the likes of which I've never experienced causes me to shudder uncontrollably. They are pointing at me.

I wish I weren't here. God, please don't let me be here anymore! I wish I were anywhere else in the world. I wish I were back in the hot, hot car. I can't stop staring at the people on the curb. I want to be with them, pointing and crying. I want to be them, not who I am.

The tiredness is overtaking me. There is a harsh glare in my peripheral vision. I must avert my eyes but it is impossible. The people on the curb have become smaller and quieter.

Now I am bathed in the most delicious sensation. I have never felt so relaxed. It is almost sexual. My eyes move without me willing them to. Where are they going? I see sky, I think. I think. I....