Slaughter Me Nicely

1. WHAT A DAY TO BE STABBED

This is a ghost story.  But it's not the kind of ghost story you might expect.  No one is rattling chains or giving off insidious energy as they play haunting serenades on various musical instruments.  I don't even know any instruments.  Sit me down in front of a piano and the most creative thing I will be able to do is crack an egg over it.  

Also, if you haven't already figured, I'm the ghost.  Don't get too excited, being a ghost is not actually all that cool.  Actually it kind of sucks.  No, let me be honest with you here, it really sucks.  I am trying to help people who can't even see me solve a problem they can't even see.

I might be angry, but I am not a vengeful ghost.  Try, uh..  Disappointed ghost?  Upset ghost?  A rock solid fact about this stupid world is that everyone is so focused on their own feet that no one gives a living crap about the murderer next door.

It had been the middle of day, one-hundred-and-two percent broad daylight, and not a single other person had seen the person who had smashed the window of my car in and wormed their way inside.  I can't blame anyone else entirely for what happened, I mean it really isn't exactly everyone else's duty to be on high alert for manslaughterers.  But maybe if someone had bothered to pay attention to the idiot who decided to break-into-and-then-actually-enter the car of a seventeen year old kid, I wouldn't have had unfinished business to come back to.

I first noticed from across the street that one of the rear windows had been broken in.   I ran towards my car, which I never should have done.  I yelled something rude at whoever had done this; then opened the car door and peered in to make sure all of my stupid little things hadn't been taken by whoever had snooped around inside.  Who cared about the things in the car?  I did, before I died.  And now I would be completely unable to point my old car out to you in a parking lot full of so many others.  It has become really fuzzy now, and either way it isn't like I was ever comfortable driving anyways.  

I got into the car and was immediately attacked by whoever was lying in wait in the back seat.  I had no idea how I hadn't seen them through one of the windows before I had gotten inside.  They must have been hiding.  Screw you too, tinted windows.

Eventually I realized that they had a knife and I didn't.  The knife they had was a really jealousy-inducing one, a gleaming nine and a half inch Mac Damascus that would look amazing in the hands of a chef.  In either case, I didn't have a knife, or any means to defend myself other than my own hands.  I got out of the car and started running down the street.  They followed, proved themselves to be faster than me, and in some way or another I ended up on the ground in a lot of pain and with a shiny new two-hundred-and-seventy dollar knife shoved into my gut.

I remember that after removing the knife, they tried once or twice without success to pick me up.  What, they wanted to keep my body?  No thanks.  I was staying here.  I was a pile of dead weight, and evidently I was heavier than they were.  They weren't able to grab me as quickly as they had hoped, and then someone yelled "what happened?", and they screamed back at them to "call an ambulance, he's been stabbed!".  As the first person that could have been my savior ran away to call an ambulance, the idiot I can call my attacker turned around and in a fit of anger stabbed me again with that glorious two-hundred-and-seventy dollar Mac Damascus.

They removed the knife, and I, unable to move from my spot in the ground other than to press my hands over my gut for the amount of pain I was in, had to watch them as they stood up and rushed ragefully towards the person they had told to call an ambulance.  I heard them scream, only once.  Part of me wishes that I had screamed when I had been attacked.  Maybe dying would have been more of what I had always expected it to be if I had only screamed.  

Maybe, if I had screamed, someone would have been able to save me.

Let me tell you about the thirty stupidest seconds I have ever experienced.  Let me tell you about the thirty stupid seconds I endured before I died.