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Daphne

So, this is how I die. If I take a moment to look at this event objectively, I have to say I’m disappointed. My history of wounds by poorly aimed ammunition, slashes from ninja sharp blades that missed arteries by centimeters, avoiding starvation or fatal hypothermia by hours or possibly minutes… all times my demise would have made sense, probably deserved. But this? No, this is wrong, maddeningly so. Everything I know, all the knowledge that’s been pumped into my brain, the reliable recall, triggered and pulsed that he would lean right when he drew his pistol from his shoulder harness. I was prepared, my anticipatory reflexes already in motion, visualizing the small bore impact on his forehead from my bullet and the glorious splatter of all his skull contained released by the exit wound. Instead I hit a plastic container full of some type of white powder and all I saw was Christmas in July. 

If that was the extent of my blunder I would be pissed but not dying. No, he was also firing and his aim was spot on. I’m not a medical professional so I have no idea what inside me is ruptured, at least in scientific terms, but I’m leaking life force or whatever it is that keeps a person alive. This sucks. Killed by a mistake. Mine? The Group? Does it matter? Yeah, it does. Not for me—I’m done—but for Daphne027, whoever that will be, it’s pretty damn important. 

Published inNovel Concept

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