little

I was shot and killed this evening on the Northwest line of the Metra, heading home from spending a few days with my boyfriend.

I was seated on the second level of the train, near the car's lavatory. An electrified man, Hispanic-looking, entered the bathroom and flipped the occupied switch on, so the sign outside of the toilet glowed cream yellow.

After only a few seconds, he abruptly unlocked the bathroom door while yelling at the top of his lungs, "Die by my hand and you will all have white wings."

My music was still playing in my iPod, but I can't remember the song. He fired gun and shot at the roof of the car first. My eyes swept along the gunman's face, but I can't remember it right now.

I was the first person he shot and killed, I think. He hit me below my right eye, and then on the top right of my forehead. I died by his hands, but I'm still sitting on the top level of the train listening to some song.

My boyfriend will ask my parents and/or my sister for my journal. They'll go through my room, they'll feel embarrassed for finding the disk of terrible porn I took from an old friend's place. They'll eventually find my journal, and Mike will take it.

My sister will start to drink a lot. My mom will join her. My dad, well, he'll just drive. My mom and sister will grow to hate me, and my dad, who used to hate me, will grow to miss me. All the while, they won't bury me because it just wouldn't do. Steve's still asleep in his room, he's still asleep and that's all right.

My cat will outlive me, and then she'll die... The feline representation of me will die, and then my boyfriend and my friends and my family will grow to hate me and they'll all take the train somewhere before they die, too.