Christmas Eve.
Strange. There was so much festive activities going on around me, and yet, I couldn't get into the Christmas spirit. I was hoping that being around family and friends would make me feel better, but it didn't. Instead I had this strange emptiness in me. It was hard to explain.
I decided to chill at my good friend's house for a while before we went to SoHo. It felt good to see the guy again, haven't seen him in a year in a half, and I was happy to be in his presence. But something was wrong. The doors to his house blasted open. We leaped out of our seats.
"What the hell was that?!" He yelled at me.
"Hide. I know what's going on." I told him quietly.
I was correct. A serial killer has been announced, and it could've been anyone. Including me. Someone must've thought I was the killer, and must've sent black ops after me. Following the busted down doors was a smoke grenade. As the smoke cleared, I found my self surrounded by the ops.
"What seems to be the problem Gentlemen?" I ask calmly.
Then, without warning, they open fire on me. I die. And I wasn't the killer. You Bastards.