Stabbed. In the heart, in my lungs. Spikes gritting and grinding into flesh like a heated knife through butter. The feeling of blood as it drowns me slowly, so slowly so I can see with hazy eyes the faces of them as they stare down in horror as I die in front of them.

Cut open, decapitated, covered in cement, dragged along behind a moving vehicle, shot over 1200 times. Hell, I've even been the cause before, slitting my own wrists, hanging in some sick attempt to mimic the ones before me. Sawed in half, eaten alive, cancer…that one sucked ass.

Every time is hurts like a fucking bitch. But, it almost gets easier to handle, easier to understand.

And when I wake up in the morning, that suffocating orange jacket my broken, blood stained shield…well, I stopped throwing up from the shock. That's good right?

I can't help but hate myself and whatever god or demon that is laughing at me. It's one thing to die over and over again. But another completely to walk back into school, into the kitchen, into their pitiful lives and look into the eyes of my best fucking friends and know that they do not remember the traumatizing experience that was my death. Right in front of them, god damn it!

When it's happening, sometimes slow, other times instantly, I see a white light or the burning flames of hell. I can hear the words that haunt me into the few seconds when my mind tricks me into thinking that maybe, possibly I can die; "OH MY GOD! THEY KILLED KENNY!"

You bastards…why can't you remember? Why can't you remember me?