Abby Citterman
Aug 28, 2017 · 2 min read

The sixth time I was murdered this week was probably the least painful, but it was the most personal. Monday was a bad day. I mean, it was, by definition of Monday, a bad day, but it was, like, really bad. I died three times, which is my personal record, by the way. I am a bit vain, and I’ll be the first to admit it. I caught myself staring at my reflection in the shimmery exterior of what used to be known as the tallest building in the world: my icy blue eyes and tousled black hair, the lean muscle defining my strong arms and long legs, my brilliant smile. I am distractingly beautiful. While busy being enamored by the image before me — me, obviously — a bullet entered the top of my skull, exited from right between these baby blues, and ricocheted off of the metallic side of the skyscraper, my dashing reflection stained with dark splatters. It was a sniper, I’m sure of it. I crumpled to the ground, laying still for a minute and practicing the deep breathing exercises I worked so hard to employ during my army days as to stay calm and collected. This was wartime again; World War III was simply pregame, just a warm up for this epic ongoing battle between the living and the undead. Once I collected myself, I rolled over and stumbled to my feet, angry as hell. I hate getting headaches. I shuffled over to the entrance of the building across Michigan Avenue, where I could only assume my murderer was residing. He wasn’t gonna get away with that…

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