Shot

She found her own suicide note. It was unmistakably her own handwriting, it was stained with blood, and it was dated three days from today.

I wasn't supposed to survive, let alone escape. So, somehow, it wasn't surprising that I was staring at my own suicide note, dated three days from now. It was unmistakably my handwriting. The way I curled my letters around each other, how I tapered off at the end of sentences. There were even small blotches of water where supposed tears had fallen and a stain on the corner that could only be blood. They had found me. It was over.