Writing Test

I had just killed a man. The handgun I shot him with was clasped tightly in my right hand, still aiming toward where he had stood seconds before. As my eye peered through the sight atop the weapon I could see nothing but remnants of the dead man’s brain stuck to the wallpaper, splattered around the bullet hole newly formed just above the fireplace.
I lay upon the recently varnished wooden floor of the apartment, my back resting on the soft black leather of the settee behind me. My arm grew tired, and I lowered my weapon, trembling as I did so. As my hand neared the floor I allowed the gun to slip from my fingers as I loosened my grip, and I heard the heavy crack as it fell to the ground, followed soon after by my weary hand.
I looked at the dead man across the room. His motionless body was strewn face down on the floor, the hole in the back of his head still leaking brain tissue and blood. I closed my eyes, and tilted my head back until it came to rest on the cushioned leather behind me.
My ears were still ringing, and aside from the distant sound of sirens cutting through the city streets below I could hear nothing. I became aware of a damp, warm sensation over my upper body, and raising my left hand to my chest I pinched the wet material with my thumb and index finger, pulling it away from my skin, only for it to reattach itself on release. Further exploration of my chest caused a sharp, unpleasant pain to course through my entire body, and my eyes involuntarily opened, the ceiling light directly above blinding me as quickly as the pain had done.
With all the strength I could muster, I slowly lifted my head and looked down at my torso. My shaking, crimson-red fingers were resting upon a gaping hole, dead centre in the middle of my chest, where his bullet had entered me. I realised then that I was lying in a pool of my own blood, and the adrenaline shooting through my veins was acting as a painkiller. I could feel my body gradually shutting down. I let my head drop back to rest on the settee, and lay with my eyes half open, staring lazily at the ceiling light. Dazzled by the bright beam, the fuzzy orange dots dancing in my vision, I slowly closed my eyes.
The approaching sirens I heard earlier had now reached their destination. I could hear a commotion outside at street level, and a faint clatter, before the heavy-booted footsteps entered the building and began racing up the stairs towards the apartment.
I thought of Rachel. A solitary tear welled up in my left eye, and drifted down my cheek, dripping onto the leather below my head. The noise of the rapidly ascending officers outside was gradually drowned out by the sound of the ocean, lapping at the shore. We were on the beach, holding each other as Emma played in the sea, laughing and waving. I could smell the salt in the air, and I could feel the blistering heat of the midday sun enveloping us. I tried to wave back to Emma, but I couldn’t move my arms.
My dreamworld was soon interrupted by the thunderous cracking and splintering of the apartment door, as the armed response unit flooded the room. I could not distinguish the orders being shouted at me, probably to put my hands behind my head or to get down on the floor, but I was unable to do either. I simply lay there, staring at the ceiling light above, as several gun barrels were pointed at my lifeless body.
My fingers, sticky with my own fresh blood, trembled gently as I closed my eyes a final time, and all went black.

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