preface
I pondered long and hard about the means of my death, squandering to excruciating detail the second-by-second replay (like after someone scores a point in Wii tennis), as if I longed for it bad enough, I could will it so. However, unfortunately, logic and physics have made it nearly impossible for attaining a death by the hands of a giant zombie cat.
Although, dying this way is cool too. I was breathing like a deranged scuba diver, my breath catching on every irregular beat. I tried to glare hateful daggers, but they only came out as irritated, dull razor blades, across the room into the eyes of the hunter. I would say he looked back pleasantly, but that would be an oxymoron and shall take no place in this wondrous creation of literary genius. Because dying by the hands (or should I say paws?) of a large, undead cat has no sentimental value and would not be seen as selfless, this is much nobler, thus more suitable for my selfless, gallant character.
Perhaps if I was psychic, I would have known that coming to Forks would be one of the only mistakes I have ever made in my life (that, and not going blonde when I had the chance). However, not being psychic is only one of the six character traits generously given to me by my author, as you will soon learn.
But I'm getting ahead of myself, back to the hunter I so vaguely describe. He came towards me, but I shall depict it differently, using pointless, long words that I don't know the meaning of. In my much more exciting version, he frolicked slowly, meandering towards me like that confused sea pony I wanted for my seventh birthday.