There was a gun. Two pieces of glass that formed a symbol I didn’t recognize when pushed together, and a letter. I opened it. It was a suicide note. It hurts when I don’t remember. I want the pain to stop. Please, don’t do it again. Don’t save me. I want to leave this place, it read.
I tried to swallow. My throat was still dry. The weapon felt heavy in my hands. I considered leaving it behind, but if I was the one responsible, the consequences would surely be dire.
No matter how much I turned the note around and looked at it from different angles, it wasn’t signed. I didn’t know what to think. Had I written it? Had I failed at leaving what the handwriting referred to as This Place? Or was it not mine after all?
The two pieces of glass were a mystery to me as well. The symbol could have very well been a coincidence as it could have been meaningful.
My head buzzed with the questions I’d sought—now all I needed were the answers, the key to unlock what had somehow been pushed out of my mind.
I decided to—
A) I decided to get off this damned rooftop and explore the city; staying could be dangerous.
B) I decided to stick around; maybe I could find something else by exploring the places I hadn't checked yet.
C) I decided to go down into the building and knock on the first door I could find; I needed help, not useless clues.
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