More often than not, the person dying on the floor is somebody I don't really like. Somebody who - earlier in the day - I caught stealing from my bag. Or somebody who spent a day yelling that I was a "narc". Or somebody who decided we had a beef for whatever reason and continuously threatened to be waiting for me after my shift.
And sometimes they were. Waiting for me in a heap on the asphalt. Motionless. Color draining from their faces. Their limbs contorted awkwardly like a discarded ragdoll some child had become bored with.
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