God damn it this hurts!!'

A bat cracks me across my face and I cough up blood. I don't know what's going on, one second I'm hosting a pleasant dinner for my pregnant sister, Jean and her husband, Tim (who happens to be my best friend) when six men with guns bust in my door! Seriously what the fuck! Now I'm being beaten to death by the king of all fat, ugly, shit eating, father fucking, puppy kicking, rabbit raping, bastar-

*WHAM!*

Another swing crushes my knee cap, my sister cries for someone to help (unfortunately my nearest neighbor is a mile away) as Tim meets my eye. He struggles against his bonds and screams for mercy, as both he and my sister are zip tied to my nice mahogany dining room chairs.

I glare at my attacker, he is a professional. I know this because he and cronies attacked me while I was at my summer home on vacation. I know this because they performed a five-point room scan upon entering my home. I know this because they haven't said a word, haven't shown their faces from behind their brandless ski masks and have similar brandless clothing that shows no skin. I know that they are pros because of their gloves, their rifling free guns with no markings, and by the fact that they are beating me with my bat. (and damnit that shit is signed by the entire Boston Red Sox team of 2015) I know that they were hired to kill me slowly using my family as hostages to ensure I wouldn't fight back because I'm a forensic pathologist with several degrees, one of which in psychology and because figuring out a criminal and his motive pays my bills. Though I am disappointed by the one guy that smokes cigarettes because the ash and smoke just act as extra evidence left behind.(He makes up for this, however, by coming up with the idea to prolong my suffering by sealing my worst wounds with one the knives in my kitchen and his lighter.)

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

When I went through school I was hailed as a prodigy, but after all my a hard work and effort here I am bloodying my once white (not to mention clean) carpet. I think this counts as ironic? Well whatever, if I'm right(and I always am) I a have 12 broken ribs,11 lost teeth, 10 shattered fingers, 9 decimated toes, 8 severed tendons, 7 dislocated joints, 6 cauterized wounds, 5 skull fractures!!, four minutes left, 3 endangered familia, 2 missing balls, and a headache that could make mountains tremble.

"Any last words?" asked my assailant smugly in a husky voice. The beating paused allowing me to level my gaze with Tim and suck in my final breath to let out one last zinger... "If you make it, delete my search history" I laugh despite the pain, and it could just be the tenseness of the situation but the room bursts into laughter. Tim smiles through the tears "sure man, see ya later." Jean starts to bawl even harder calling me an idiot "Why the hell are those your last words, ya idiot!!"

I smile as the bullet passes through my skull.