Jeff Is My Killer (A Jeff The Killer Love Story)

Death

I refused to move.
I wouldn't. What was the point? I mean, I knew I was going to die.. Well.. I guess everyone was going to die one day. But today just happened to be the day where I would meet my killer. The person who would take my life, slamming his knife into my chest, stomach, back, anywhere he could.

I couldn't hear.

I couldn't hear his footsteps approaching me at a killers pace. I was surrounded by memories, and that was the only important thing.

Would I have any regrets? I knew I would see my blood splatter in a matter of moments, sticking my clothes to my frail body, and watching it drip down the chair.

My friends? My family?

No.

Not my family. My family didn't give a shit about me. After all, they had sent me to this piece-of-a-shit "mental hospital."

A pair of dusty, black and white converse came into my field of vision, yet I did not move.

My friends?

Did I really care about them? Did they even care about me? Jordan? Karli? Did any of them care?

The converse stopped moving towards me.

I remembered their faces. Their laughs. Their jokes, stories, and all of the other pointless shit we had done together over the years. Yeah, those little encounters seemed meaningless, but put together they had been the only things keeping me alive for all of these years.

It had been my friends talking to me, helping me, and joking with me, which made me realize that I did still care about something.

I cared about them.

And as I felt two, dead hands wrap around my neck, squeezing, squeezing,

I knew.

That no matter what, even if I was dying, even if my vision was fading around the edges,

I knew.

That I would always love them.