I’m dead.
You’re wondering how I can still talk if I’m dead? Simple: I became a ghost.
I watched helplessly as rescue workers in full protective gear climbed down the cliff and zipped me into a body bag.
I admired their professionalism, because I looked awful. My skull had split open, and my brains mixed with blood had stained the grass dark red.
I had landed face down, my nose smashed to pieces. My right hand and left leg were both broken, leaving me twisted into a grotesque pose.
You want to know who killed me? All I can tell you is that I died by a murder I had designed myself.
