The Fourth of July is likely the best day to be murdered. If timed correctly, the sound of the gunshot is muffled behind the explosion of fireworks, and the cover of night blankets both shooter and shootee. And as the shootee, I can think of no better final moments than this spectacular show of lights and noise on a beautifully and unusually cool July evening, with a mild and peaceful breeze carrying my last breaths across the earth. In between blasts of light, more of my passed family and friends arrive to my soft, grassy deathbed to carry me over into whatever Great Beyond awaits. Despite the darkness of night, the sky slowly brightens and showers my limp body in that long sought after bath of warm, bright light, and I wonder if anyone else in this waterfront park can see the beauty of it all. At least, that’s what I would be feeling if I had actually been shot properly. Instead, I’m doing my best to act like a natural corpse, ignoring both the extraordinary stinging sensation in my shoulder, and growing numbness in my left hand. A more experienced shooter might have paused for the glimmer of a firework to ensure proper aim, but not my shooter. Half a second too early, and while still submerged in darkness, he fired and missed. I fell to the ground; had I thought this through I might have landed more comfortably for myself, and not in this twisted, crumpled heap. A more experienced shooter might have checked my pulse or breathing to confirm his kill, but not my shooter. He flew off in a panic - perhaps I’m more of a natural corpse than I thought. ____________________________________ “Oh no. What did I do? What did I do? What did I do,” I murmur frantically, speed walking my way out of the park and as far away from the water as possible. They told me the gun wasn’t loaded - it was just for show! The panic settles and burrows deep. My brain can only focus on one task at a time and right now that task needs to be breathing, not thinking. Okay, two tasks: breathing and walking. Step, inhale. Step, exhale. Step, inhale. Step, exhale. One foot in front of the other, up the hill and back towards the crowd. Oh no, not a crowd. Just act natural. Step, inhale. Step, exhale. Be cool. But I’m not cool. Not mentally, and especially not physically with sweat dripping down my face and back. Each blast of the fireworks startles me, exposing my drenched shirt and bulging, fearful eyes. Everyone must hear my shallow gasps at life and know I’m guilty. With a jolt, my body freezes and my breathing slows. No natural killers here. I take off.