The day started like any other day, just like every other story. No, I must be more specific. When you ask? July 3rd, it was a Monday. Did you know Monday is the day most suicides occur on? The only irony is that I was murdered at the hands of four white men; they made the conscious decision to put out of my misery before I even got the chance to make up my mind. Funny how the universe works that way, huh? One day I’m plotting my debauched suicide, the next I’m being beaten to a pulp in the middle of 1st street on cold, wet pavement. It was that kind of day. A muggy, rainy Monday. A random Monday, of a random week, of a random month. And on this particular Monday, shortly after my bludgeoning, I was resurrected. To whom do I owe this revival I speak of? Death. Death greeted me tenderly and lovingly; wiped the blood from my eyes and sweat off my back. She nursed me, but only after she had turned me. And in my death, I had never felt so alive.