All I can remember is pain. Stabbing, deep, tremendous pain. It turned out to be heart-stopping pain, too. I died a month and two days ago by a bullet to the chest.

Logically, I know that the pain isn’t what killed me. It was the blood loss and damage to my heart and lungs. But when I remember it, I remember the pain being the lethal part of being shot.

The man who shot me was dirty and troubled. That’s what I remember thinking after he shot me and the second before he shot himself in the head. He looked me in the eye, raised the barrel to his wrinkled head, and fired. He didn’t close his eyes when he shot himself. His grey eyes remained open to the world as his heart stopped. Isn’t that funny? The thing I most remember about the man that killed me is that he died with his eyes open.

The man died instantly. I don’t wish I had died instantly like he did. I would take the pain and an extra minute of life over anything.

I like to think that I saved a life. That man could have shot anyone else in that school, but he shot me. He took my life. That means that another kid at that school gets a chance to have a life. I hope that the kid I saved will do great things. It’s a lot of responsibility, but I don’t want the kid to waste the time I lost.

This isn’t a love story or a tale of miracles. This is not a story of resurrection or second chances. This is the account of my death. I don’t know any secrets of the universe or if there is a God. I would tell you if I knew, but I don’t.

If there are three things you should take away from this mess of words, they should be:
One. I didn’t want to die, but whoever or whatever decides who lives and dies does not take that into account.
Two. When I think of regrets, I like to tell myself I lived without them. That’s not true. I have a lot of regrets. In the interest of saving time, I will simply tell you that I regret my failures of character.
Three. I wish I had lived with my eyes open.