Prelude: A Bullet In The Mind
The Following Document Was Extracted From The Portal. It Appears To Be A Prelude, Possibly To A Book.
I died years ago. I was murdered in a sense. I just don’t know which one.
I was sitting at home on my couch indulging, or binging, when someone killed me. I think I knew the person. I think I knew them very well. Strangely, I didn’t realize it was them when it happened. It didn’t feel, look, sound, smell or taste like them, but it was them in a sense. Again, I just don’t know which sense it was. Clearly not one of the standard 5 I had been taught in school if that makes sense.
Anyways, they entered through the front door. Why it was open, I don’t know. In hindsight it doesn’t make sense but neither does a closed door. So, as I mentioned, they entered the home through the front door. Gun in hand.
Rather silently with no resistance and no emotion by anyone involved, the barrel was pressed against my temple pushing in with enough force to cause a pressure canyon to form in my skin, before slightly tilting my head to the side, bending at the neck. Click. I felt the explosion in the chamber of the weapon. The deceptively clever design of the firearm (genius level engineering in truth) coupled with that exact explosion propelled the projectile through the floor of the skin canyon.
As mentioned, this was unexpected. Not in the sense that I didn’t know it was going to happen, but in the sense that even my soul didn’t know it was going to happen. I’m not aware if god even knew it would happen. Regardless, both my body and my soul, we were not prepared. So, just as the unexpected arrival of hot metal energy in the previously fully occupied space of my skull caused a spontaneous eruption, pushing a shock wave of a ripple through and a white and pink speckled explosion of red out, my soul was thrust from my body, unusually exiting in the same direction as the red mist. Sideways.
Unbound by reality, it hurled itself through the wall, the same wall the blood like matter stopped at, sprawling itself across the canvas of bare suburban eggshell white before posing for a photograph; the type of photograph that would later claim motive was evident beyond any type of reasonable doubt.
Enough with photos and the physical. As the soul that had either once been mine or was now finally becoming mine, emerged from the wall on the other side, it looked to the door. It was closed after all. Always had been. Had this been an inside job?
This is where the story begins. Think of that as the melodic interlude. Contributing in its presents. Forgotten in its absence. It’s own story when presented that way.
The story begins just after, on the other side of the wall. The previous story becomes a past event with significance so minimal I couldn’t even tell you what city I was in. So we begin. Right here. Right now. Making this story: The Present.
You may unwrap.