A day after my 25th birthday, I was murdered in cold blood. Though I know with great certainty I was killed and remember it somewhat clearly, I awoke in my small duplex apartment like nothing happened. Nothing looked altered, stolen, or broken. My clothes were strewn about the apartment in a messy manner from the front door to my bedroom. I went over to the cream orange sweater I wore on my night on the town. I chuckled remembering how I bought the article of clothing because I felt it spoke to me. The brightness was very out of character for me. My wardrobe never strayed into the bright colors. I turned over the top to reveal it was darkened with blood. The source of the blood was a few small holes, a gunshot wound. Well I thought it was multiple bullet holes, but there was a spray pattern like a shotgun wound. There was a trail of blood leading to my bathroom. The scene I walked in on was like a massacre. Bloody Handprints were adorned on almost every surface of the white room. It showed a gruesome scene of someone trying to self- medicate and bandage a rather severe wound. I must have that someone. I touch my stomach, half expecting there to be pain but I felt nothing. Well, I felt my slightly damp bandages on my abdomen, but no pain. Whatever happened was in the past- I needed to hurry because this mess was gonna take awhile to clean and I wanted to get to work before 2:30 p.m.
