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A gunshot shatters your blissful state of slumber. Blood stains your sheets and crimson runs from the walls and ceiling, and you notice from the blurred vagueness that is your peripheral vision, a body slumped over the foot of your bed. Somebody has been murdered in your room.
Despite the early hour, and the shock of your discovery, you desperately muster the strength to search for the last place you put the phone; you have to call the police before it’s too late.
As you frantically search under cushions, beneath stacks of papers and old CD’s, you realize something is wrong. Suddenly, you feel weak, decrepit, frail, a frailness that brings on intense and unwanted dizziness. You clench your teeth as you search for the phone, but your pain continues lurch at your bones and nag at you. The pain becomes intense, and your vision blurs, and you keel over in pain onto the floor. You are immobile due to the raging and unknown pain clawing at your insides. Helpless.
You sense a living presence in your room now, your sheets rustling, and now footsteps. The debilitated corpse that once lay helpless on your bed, you realize is moving of it’s own volition. It is alive.
In your last moments of consciousness, your last breath of air, you manage to grasp at your stomach, and you feel torn skin, and then raw flesh. And then nothing. There is a gaping hole there.
These are the last things you remembered.