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February 20th, 2007.
The day I died.
The hospital issued an official time of death at 1:30 in the morning. I disagree, personally- they dumped my body on the table without even the smallest breath of life in me about a half hour before they gave up. I know, because I was there. Sort of.
My clothes were lying in a brown paper bag next to the operating table, where they had left my body for the time being. I opened the bag as quietly as I could and put on my muddy pants and blood-smeared army jacket. I slowly fingered the still damp hole where just an hour before a bullet had slammed into my chest. The other three had gone through my head.
I couldnapos;t go out the door and walk past my parents. I still wasnapos;t sure why I could still see, still feel, still be in the now, and I didnapos;t want to give my parents false hope. Could they even see me? I walked past an orderly, and he didnapos;t look up. I was disheveled in the worst degree, out of place in the prisitine hallway, yet he looked right through me.
My stepmother was outside the hospital door, smoking a cigarette and waiting for my mother. I walked past her, snubbing out her cigarette with a glob of spit. I didnapos;t have to be polite, let alone lady-like, any more. I was ninety percent sure I was dead. Just ninety.
My stepmother didnapos;t notice her cigarette was out at first, but she simply threw it on the ground. It didnapos;t have spit on it anymore, either.
My mother walked out of the hospital crying, holding the paper bag. She had my cell phone. I froze, dying to snatch it out of her hand. This could get ugly- she already knew I had broken the rules, that I was out of the house after eleven, but the phone had my texts, my pictures. I prayed that she wouldnapos;t look at the pictures.


((I am bored and in study hall, I felt like it.))

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