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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1383435
Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Mystery · #1383435
Just me trying to work on my detailing and some 'unemotional' type writing.
There are no fuzzy feelings when it comes to death.
There's no gush of warmth that starts in your lower belly and travels North to heat your face.

It's more of the opposite, like a cold, steel hand that's stuck itself into the small of your back and has a tight grip on your spinal cord and is twisting it ever so slowly to the left.
And hell, that's not even experiencing death, that's just seeing what's left. The aftermath. Bathroom humour being aftermath means a huge dump in which the stench is so raunchy you can't go in, until your wife brings the bleach and a mask and orders you out into the battefield.

Have you ever been hit in the back of the head? It feels like your skull was pried open and freezing cold liquid gushes out, when in actuality, all it would be was hair sticking up in the wrong direction causing annoyance to you or something dumb like that. Anyways, that cold feeling, that's associated with death too, but think of that cold, gushing feeling, and think of it in your lungs.

Your probably wondering why the hell I am describing this to you. Well that's because of three things. One, I happen to be standing beside a yellow tape that says 'DO NOT CROSS' in big bold, black lettering, and I'm sure you've seen atleast one episode of CSI, if not Law and Order, and you can probably figure out what that means. Two, I semm to be staring at a corpse, one that was taken from this world far too soon. And finally, three, because I seen it happen. Sadly, I was also being accused of it at the moment. It's kind of hard to tell people what happened, the truth, because truth means nothing these days. Seriously, I walk into a bookstore with my coffee asking for a Men's Health magazine and the lady looks at me, stunned. I'm a guy, but I don't look like the type who works out obsessively, and I wouldn't want to read that particular magazine. I tell her it's for a friend, which it honestly is, and she immediatly doesn't believe me, giving me the 'Sure, buddy, whatever you say' look, obviously in belief that I buy the magazine to stare at the nearly naked men. This is about the time I give her a tight smile, and hurry out of the store with the magazine tucked under my arm. See, no truth these days. Atleast, none that anyone believes.

Alright, back to this whole 'murder, oh no, I'm a suspect' issue. I'm not worried. There won't be any of my semen, blood, sweat, or spit on that corpse, I'm positive of that. I had been standing about fifteen feet away, sitting on a chair in front of a tiny ice cream stand, licking my vanilla cone and basically basking in the nice sunshine, when all of a sudden I see this girl, who's now the corpse, standing with her back to me, talking to a guy. I look around, nobody else is nearby, so I go back to enjoying the light, when BAM! Gunshot.

Gunshots don't sound like those cute little POP noises you hear in the movies. This is like a smashing noise that echoes in your eardrums for hours afterwards. All I see is the guy running for all he was worth down the street, and blood spraying across the ground, splashing against my foot. There goes my fifty dollar white and bright blue Air Jordans that I got for Christmas.
© Copyright 2008 Theodore M. Harper (kostan at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1383435