Death stories always seem to be on cold, dark, rainy nights. If you want to be especially cheesy, they're foggy, too. Well, my death just so happened to fall on a cold winter night.
It was November-I only remember because it was close to my birthday. I was walking home from my best friend's house (we had hung out after school) when I felt it: death's cold grip.
Just kidding! I never saw it coming-the first blow that knocked me out. By the way, getting knocked out isn't anything like what they say in the movies or books. I didn't see 'everything go dark'. I didn't remember anything about getting knocked out, actually.
It's like when you've and can't remember how you fell asleep. You don't remember anything from when you were actually unconscious-just things when you woke up. When I did wake up, there were maybe three guys standing over me, apparently arguing. I guessed I had been jumped by the one holding a bat. Looking at their faces, I judged them to be only a few years older than me, maybe 17 or 18.
Anyway, they were arguing about what to do to me. My stupid, unresponsive body lay helpless as they eventually decided my fate with unanimous approval. They all heaved silent sighs and bowed their heads in guilt. Ashamed, but they must finish what they started. That is the way with dumb kids like that. Who knows how much experience they had?
The big one holding the bat walked over to me. It seemed like torture, how slowly he moved, his sneakers tapping the sidewalk only lightly. I prayed to the stars above that it only be quick and my family didn't miss me too much. I tried to focus my mind on them, far away from what was about to happen, thinking that would somehow ease the pain.
It was impossible, however, as the bat finally reached my side. I continued to lay still and silent, absolutely helpless, except my eyes, begging Him for mercy.
At least it was quick.