And when the bullet cut its way into my chest, I felt no pain. On the contrary, I felt like I was flying, like maybe, possibly, I could escape the hell around me.
But I wanted something. I wanted something beautiful to see in my dying moments, but the fact of the matter was that my girlfriend ran when the shots were fired, in some lame attempt to keep living. She called my name over her shoulder when she took off, but kept running when I did not follow.
I simply stood my place, opening my arms as if I were about to embrace a close friend.
But I wanted something wonderful, something divine, something breath-taking, anything to see. I scanned my morbid surroundings, but there were only corpses and those attempting to crawl to help, various results of the shooting spree, and dust from all those who decided to run in a feeble attempt to live their horrific lives.
Then I looked down, about to close my eyes and give in to my peaceful fate, when I saw something beautiful. Dark as night on a new moon, but as beautiful as a sunset on a clear day:
I saw a red, liquid flower blooming, growing, on my white shirt covered chest. Oddly enough, it was right where the bullet had pierced me. How could something so beautiful come from something so evil?
And when the rose had come into full bloom, my back arched, my lungs taking in a gasping, large breath, my body making one last attempt to live.
I was too far gone, thankfully. And when my eyes slammed shut, before everything disappeared for the last time, I noticed the rose had leaked upwards, and was seeking my chin in one liquidy tendril.
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