Template:POTM/March 2015

It was such a small thing, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It was hardly worth any focus or attention. Enough about me though, the bullet was small too, in a different sense I guess. To be honest, I didn't even feel it when it tore through my chest. The first thing I noticed was the damage it had done to my book. I had been walking down the street reading the last few pages of "Deadeye Dick." I was just at the part about Will Fairchild’s parachute (or lack thereof) when it happened.

There was a loud ‘Bang!’, but before I could even register the sound; the pages of the book I had been reading exploded outward and spilled out onto the street. People scattered, but I was too busy reaching for the pages before the wind could steal them away. I sank to my knees and reached for the papers. For some reason, I couldn't breathe. At first, I thought it was a car backfiring, but when I looked up, I saw a teenager around my age speeding away in a black SUV. It wasn't until I looked down and saw the hole in my chest that I connected all the dots.

I had been shot.

The last thought that went through my head was, “The book, how did it end?” As far as last thoughts go, it was a bit lackluster. I haven’t really thought profoundly on what my last thought should have been, but I was hoping for something a little more poignant to come forward in that moment. I collapsed onto my face and was dead within seconds. So it goes.

My story should have ended there, out on the pavement with blood spilling out of me, but it didn't. You could call it unresolved issues binding me to this mortal coil, but I think it was really just interest. I wanted to see what happened next. I died there, but I didn't stop existing.