[ WP ] A stranger approaches you and points a gun to your head . `` I 'm sorry , but we will explain everything at the reset . Hopefully we 'll have a fighting chance now that we have you ... '' He pulls the trigger .

They must've got the wrong one. 
 
 It's okay. I have that kind of face. Or had, I guess. I ca n't say I have much of a face at this point. 
 
 The same sentiment rings true for the face I used to have, now scattered on the floor before the body it used to define, inside-out and painted crimson with pulp of what was my frontal lobe. 
 
 It looks painful. I do n't know if it was. I think it was. I think it must've been. 
 
 It's clearly painful for the remaining corporeal beings in the room. I'm not sure what else to expect when you put a loaded high caliber weapon to the back of another man's head and pull the trigger, but this was definitely not the result they anticipated. The only one with any semblance of composure is the dog, who just whimpers, licks the speckles of my blood from his chops, and settles on his haunches. 
 
 The man holding the dog is not nearly as calm. That's understandable, considering he was the only one facing me as the bullet entered–and violently exited–my head. The handler stood at a 45 degree angle to me, holding back the dog on a considerably short chain. Prior to my execution, the two had put on a great show, each trying to out-bark the other. It might well have terrified me, in its own right, but at the time my attention was rather focused on the barrel of a gun pressed unnecessarily forcefully against the peak of my skull. 
 
 In the end, the show I put on for him was significantly more effective. 
 
 Though they he positioned himself what should have been a safe distance away, a good portion of me had sprayed across the handler and his dog, a bright contrast against his all black attire. Now shot, now ethereal and now somehow fixed above and throughout this scene, I watch as his eyes expand beyond the size allowed beneath the holes of his knit ski mask. His body starts convulsing, rattling rhythmically as if one reversed the resonance of a banged gong, exponentially building to his explosive `` Fuck.'' 
 
 As if waiting for this audible cue, the one in the corner vomits. It's a full-body, doubled-over-on-your-knees vomit. Whatever weapon he was holding hangs loosely on his neck as he partially spews on it with his yellow stink. Tucked away in the dark corner behind the scene, clutching an automatic rifle the size of his torso, he must have been trying so hard to look so stern. Yet I had n't even noticed he existed until I no longer did. 
 
 His stream is fully expunged before the `` Fuck'' even finishes bouncing off the walls. The lone woman in the room ( I'm pretty sure she's a woman ) is now in front of the gun-wielder, between him and the chair in which I was seated, where the body I had worn had been sitting. She pleads with gunman, beats him with her fists, screams her fucking head off at him. `` What did you do?'' `` Were is the reset?'' `` Who the fuck was that?'' 
 
 The gunman only stands, his arm still erect, holding the gun in the same spot my head had been. A yellow pool beneath his left foot adds to the abundance of bodily fluids filling the room. 
 
 Then the feed cuts off. 
 
 I ca n't say why it was on for so long. My brain was n't intact, and yet my thoughts were–*are*–intact. They're strong and unstoppable, completely unquenchable, adrift without stimulation in this soft dark nothing. For those final moments, what living tissue was left of my mind to carry me through that scene? I did n't just watch or hear or see; for the dwindling instance of my life, I became that room. And now, in this total deconstruction of time and matter, what's left of me to be abandoned in this eternal circle of thought? 
 
 I wish I knew a bit more. Though, I suppose that's the great wish of the dead. For all the closure and resolution found in the films and the books and the ballads of the living, nothing prepares you for the questions never answered in the absence of your life. without even a hand to count to track the time or an eye to see it, I ca n't measure how long I've been left to thinking. I'll just call it an eternity. I turn these impossible observations over and over, playing them forwards and backwards as well as I can, buy all I'll ever know, for certain, never changes. I was killed by a bunch of kids who thought you could reset life.
