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Alex Cameron
Alex Cameron

I must be in hell.

The touch of the cold, steel blade on my skin, slicing passage into my belly is more than enough to make me scream, cry, and run for the hills. But I can’t because I’m a living corpse, awake and unable to move.

The doctor says, “cut deeper,” and I feel my insides scrambling. This can’t be happening.

I’m supposed to be unconscious.



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The sky was beautiful the morning I was murdered. I didn’t hear the stranger creep up behind me and separate my head from my body. There was a slight pressure around my neck and then weightlessness as the world spun and the ground moved closer at an alarming speed.