(REPOSTED IN ANOTHER ACCOUNT)

As I lay on the ground, feeling the cold asphalt pressing against my back, I couldn't help but think about the fragile nature of life and death. It's funny, really, the thing people call death.

Clinically, it's the irreversible cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism. According to dictionaries, and the cold logic that men of reason, doctors, and scientists see the world through, it's just that; an end, a curtain closing down on what was most likely a rather mediocre show, but with no bows nor applause at the end.

Others see it as a new beginning, a doorway to eternal bliss, damnation, or maybe even a whole new life. I can't help but wonder what it'll be for me. I suppose, it only makes sense that I'd dwell on it now, seeing how I spent my entire life trying and failing not to think about my own mortality and that of everyone around me.

It's weird how you can be so alive one moment, full of potential, and the next, you're taking your last breaths and having a philosophical debate about the meaning of death with your own unconscious mind. One minute, I was here, living my life, and now I'm lying here, feeling everything slip away. It's surreal, like I'm caught between two worlds.

The pain is gone now, replaced by this numbness spreading through me. My vision's getting blurry, and sounds are fading, like they're coming from far away. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're dying, but for me, there was nothing like that, but thoughts of just how funny and ironic my death was.

Walking around the neighborhood for whatever reason, I'd always encounter that one guy leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette, or that one lady sitting on a bench in the park having lunch, and occasionally I'd think of just how ridiculously vulnerable these people were.

In my mind, I would always envision a scenario where a car would curve out of the street and snap both the man and lamp post he's leaning on in two, or one of the many passersby in the park taking out a gun and putting three bullets in the clueless lady.

Yes, those are not the thoughts of a sane individual, but that's beside the point. 

Funnily enough, amidst the screams and people rushing toward me, I recognized the very same guy I usually saw leaning on a lamppost, inhaling smoke.

He was holding his phone to his ear, stuttering as he tried to convey the address to emergency services and the fact that I had been hit by a car that veered off the road. His voice seemed distant, a faint echo against the backdrop of my fading awareness.

It's strange how the world keeps spinning even as mine grinds to a halt. The sky above me was a serene blue, the sun casting a warm glow over the chaotic scene unfolding around me. People were shouting, cars honking, a woman sobbing nearby. All these sounds were blending into a muffled symphony, distant and irrelevant.

As my vision narrowed, I focused on the man's face—the lamppost guy. His usual nonchalance was replaced by a look of sheer panic and desperation. I wanted to tell him it was okay, that everything would be fine, but my lips wouldn't move.

My body was no longer mine to control.

Funny, I always imagined a grand epiphany or a profound revelation in my final moments, but there was none of that. Just a quiet acceptance, a peaceful resignation. Maybe that's what death really is—a release from all the noise and struggle.

I could feel the life draining out of me, each breath shallower than the last. The numbness was comforting, like sinking into a warm bath after a long day. My thoughts became slower, less coherent. Faces of loved ones flashed in my mind, not in a dramatic montage, but in a gentle, fading slideshow.

I thought about my family, my friends, all the people I loved and the ones I never got to say goodbye to. I recalled all the things I did, the ones I didn't get to do, the things I should have done and said, the things I shouldn't have done and said.

"Huh... I guess it's true what they say about... life flashing..."

The man's frantic voice became a low hum, and the world around me dimmed to a soft gray. I felt a lightness, as if a great weight had been lifted off my chest.

My last breath slipped out in a quiet sigh, and then, there was nothing—just a calm, endless void.

...

I awoke with a start, my heart pounding in my chest. The sensation of cold asphalt was replaced by the rough texture of a worn mattress beneath me. Blinking, I tried to make sense of my surroundings.

The dim light of a rundown motel room greeted me, peeling wallpaper and a cracked ceiling adding to the sense of decay.

"What the hell?" I muttered, pushing myself up. My body felt foreign, heavier, and my head throbbed with a torrent of unfamiliar memories. Names and faces I didn't recognize swirled in my mind: Silvio Manfredi, Leland Owlsley, Detective Vasquez.

I glanced around the room, my eyes landing on two briefcases lying on the dingy carpet. One was open, revealing stacks of cash neatly arranged inside. The other was filled with bags of a white, crystal-like substance.

'Oh God, what is this?'

Panic gripped me as I grasped the reality of my situation, memories that were not my own flooding my brain. I wasn't myself anymore—I was Vito, a low-ranking thug in the Maggia, and I was in deep trouble. How did this happen? My thoughts raced as I pieced together Vito's chaotic life—his betrayals, the gang war his greed had sparked, and the relentless police hunt.

Vito had been trusted by Silvio Manfredi, head of the Manfredi family within the international Maggia crime syndicate, with a major drug deal. But Vito, driven by greed, had betrayed that trust. He alerted the police to the deal's time and place, intending to steal both the money and drugs amidst the ensuing chaos.

As gangs and cops clashed, he executed his plan flawlessly—except for his reckless spending, which raised suspicions and eventually exposed his actions.

Now, with two furious gang bosses and a host of determined police officers hunting him down, Vito had somehow managed to dodge the consequences, leaving me to face them instead.

As Vito's memories flooded my mind, a sense of dread washed over me. I was trapped in a violent world far removed from the life I once knew. The walls seemed to close in, my breathing quickening as the full weight of my predicament hit me.

A series of forceful knocks on the door snapped me back to reality. "Vito, open up! We know you're in there!" a voice barked from the other side.

'Oh no, not now!' My heart raced as I realized the ones knocking were from one of the gangs. Panic surged as I frantically searched my pockets, freezing when I found a gun. The cold metal felt alien in my hand.

For a moment, I considered fighting back. But how many were there? What were they armed with? The uncertainty paralyzed me. I dismissed the idea, tucking the gun into my waistband. Grabbing the briefcase with the money, I headed for the bathroom.

The window was small, but I squeezed through, the rough edges scraping my skin. Once outside, I crouched down, my mind racing. Where did Vito park his car? Squeezing my brain, I remembered and headed in that direction, hoping for a clean getaway.

But when I saw the car, my heart sank. The tires had been slashed. "God fucking damn it!" I cursed under my breath, realizing the visitors had done it. Panic surged through me as I heard loud exclamations from the motel room. They were coming.

My gaze shifted toward someone parking their car in the motel's lot. Without a second thought, I drew the pistol and ran toward the driver. "Out of the car! Please!" I yelled, pointing the gun at him. His eyes widened in fear, and he scrambled out of the driver's seat.

Sliding in, I slammed the door and gunned the engine. In the rearview mirror, I saw the gangsters bursting out of the motel room, their shouts growing louder. With no time to hesitate, I floored the accelerator and sped away, the car screeching as it tore out of the parking lot.

Before I could exhale in relief, an intense light shone on my left side, almost blinding me. Then, before I could process the situation, the stolen car lurched violently, hurling me forward as the airbag exploded into my face, slamming my head against the driver's seat. Pain shot through my skull like lightning. Blinking away stars, I struggled to comprehend the chaos unfolding around me.

A black sedan had careened into the stolen vehicle, screeching it to a sudden, jolting halt. I groaned, grateful that the impact had crumpled the passenger side instead of mine. Despite the throbbing ache in my head, I seemed miraculously uninjured.

Gasping for breath, I staggered out of the car, heart sinking at the sight of familiar faces emerging from the sedan. They were armed, expressions deadly serious. Simultaneously, the motel gangsters closed in behind me, their shouts and curses filling the air like a relentless storm.

Despair gripped me—a tightening vice of dread. 'Trapped. Utterly trapped and fucked!'

...

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