My limbs were twisted at impossible angles, and my whole body was covered in blood. My face, which Dad always complained was "so depressing" was now so pale that it was almost translucent.A jagged tree branch had pierced straight through my chest, pinning me and the mud beneath me to the ground. Rain beat against my face, but it couldn't wash away that gray pallor of death.Dad stood there, frozen. Then, he laughed. "This prop looks insanely real."He took a couple of steps forward, crouched down, and reached out. His fingertips brushed my cheek. It felt slick, like skin washed clean by the rain. My flesh had lost all softness, leaving only a cold, rigid touch.He was still smiling, but his eyes were nothing but two dark, hollow pits."Wayne, where'd you get this prop made? It's so realistic. Even the wound…"Dad reached toward the blood on my chest. "Why isn't this paint dry yet?"He scrubbed at it, harder and harder. The more he wiped, the more there was. The blood smeared ac
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