• I didn't even hear the gun fire before the bullet hit me. My vision flickered black for long enough, I hoped, to miss seeing the inevitable. The time span of the darkness was all too short. I watched in horror as my blood, nearly black in the dark lighting, splattered the gray cement floor. I gasped for air, but coughed up blood instead. It was then I realized the bullet had punctured my lung. Then came the crash as my body fell to the ground. In a moment, I realized that I wasn't on the floor anymore. Now, I was looking on the scene, where I lay, cold and bloody, surrounded by unidentifiable metal objects and the boxes I had knocked them out of. About 20 feet across the room, a tall, dark-skinned man held a gun up, as if he was going to fire it again.
    “Was he the one?” I thought, “Did he kill me?” I was getting further away from my body, nearing the roof of the room. I wanted to scream, but the only sound I could make was silence. I wanted to ask the man, “Why did you do this? Why did you kill me?” I was centimeters away from the roof. I desperately searched my memory for a reason, an answer. However, all I could remember was my body lying there. Had the man stolen my memories as well? Wasn't taking my life enough?
    Just as suddenly as the bullet had hit me, the scene before me faded, and just like that, I was dead.