![]() No one had to know that my pale skin and sweaty palms were really the result of a colossal case of first-day-back nerves. ![]() ![]() So I could play the part however I wanted. How pale would a person look twenty-nine days after being stabbed to death? That would depend on the severity of the wound, right? On the number of organs injured? On the amount of blood lost? Since no one at school knew any of those details, they wouldn't know if my performance was off. I'd have to blaze this trail all on my own. In the movies, people are always faking their own deaths, but I couldn't think of anyone else-real or fictional-who'd faked survival. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror at seven-thirty in the morning, staring at myself, trying to decide exactly how alive I should look. I've always hated Mondays, but this particular Monday, a beautiful day in late April, seemed ready to deliver its very own brand of hell. ![]() ![]() The bad news? Turns out not even death will get you out of high school. I died on a Thursday, at twenty-seven minutes after midnight, killed by a monster intent on stealing my soul. And yeah, it's just as creepy as it sounds. ![]()
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