Samara, did not value her life. She did not understand the importance of a single solitary human life, she took for granted her friends her family, breathing, seeing, smelling. She was fifteen and had already decided nothing really mattered, she believed her life was just one of many and that to never try was to never fail. That is until she woke up.
***
Samara's routine was boring... it was predictable it attributed to her general feeling of nonchalance about life, every morning she would wake up she'd get dressed she'd mumble a good bye to her mother without really caring whether she heard or not. Sometimes she'd think to herself,"Tomorow Ill get up and make mum breakfast... or Ill go swimming with Racheal". It never happened she'd hang out with her friends she'd chat but she never really cared, never did anything spontaneous anything new, decided it wouldn't matter if she did. Then she died.
***
Her death wasn't pleasant it wasn't drifting off into an endless slumber, or being quickly pulverised by a bus. It was brutal.It was painful. It was slow. And death made her care about life... a life that she could no longer be part of. Her casual disregard for life aswell as her predictability got her killed, her killer watched her school for weeks, and he selected a victim... he selected her. The only one who never varied, who never changed, who never went home a different route, never stayed after school. He began to follow her, this alone was somthing for him to savour, the anticipation... the starter before the feast.
***
Perhaps another person, more attuned to the world outside what they believed, would have noticed, perhaps someone more aware of the world would have realised walking home along quiet roads with no friends or anyone you knew with you was not the wisest thing to do. Samara did not notice any of these things. Until her right knee was crushed by the heavy swing of a baseball bat. He had planned her murder in sickening detail, every swing, every bone. Samara was not fortunate enough to black out from the pain... or her fractured skull, she was conscious when the blade of a knife was slide between her ribs; puncturing her left lung, she could feel herself panting, gasping for air... for a few more seconds of precious life. Then there was no more pain, no more fear just blackness, and then she woke up.
***
Samara was dead, but what was left of her was wrapped around her killer, while her broken body lay on the pavement her blood seeping into the ground. The essence of her being travelled with him, she watched as he dropped the knife and the bat, she was with him as he walked home his emotions stewing beneath his calm blank face. She was in his house, he sat cross legged in the middle of the floor, his breath coming out in little clouds. Samara could feel a change shadows were dancing in the corners of the room, he stood and walked slowly into the bathroom, he filled the bath standing staring at the mirror. He took somthing long from a drawer it glinted in the faint glow of the bathroom light, he lay in the bath the water gaining a red tinge from the still wet blood from his clothes. He raised the glinting object, held tightly in his left hand and slid it down his right wrist, crimson drops dripped into the bath water drawing the blade down the other wrist he sighed and lay back his wrist leaking little rivers of blood. Samara screamed and turned away as the shadows filled the room.
***
She watched her own funeral, listened to the words of her friends and the sobs of her mother. There was little to say, nothing even that could be exagerated to make it seem better than it was. Samara had simply existed and now she truly realised that she had wasted every moment of her life, that she had never strived to make a difference had never dreamed of making a difference. She had lost that chance, like so many others before her they had died without ever appreciating life and they had only woken up... after it was far to late.
