The knife dug into your sternum. You could tell it hadn't punctured any organs— somehow— but a stab wound is still a stab wound. As the blade was withdrawn, a rush of air pushed its way into the wound, and a burning, searing pain shot through your body. The warm trickle of blood ran down your chest, and its coppery taste coated the inside of your throat. Your mind was foggy. It had been foggy for a long time, but being stabbed must've cleared it up. You finally remembered and realized what you were doing. You were dead. You should've been dead. You were buried in a shallow grave many years ago, your tombstone too insignificant to even be marked with your name. The only reason the sharp edge of iron hadn't punctured a lung is because you didn't have any. Yet you looked alive, very much so, minus the pale skin and icy temperature.

You looked up at the girl who stabbed you. She was terrified, which was completely justified. You were just trying to kill her, some sick vendetta bestowed on you by whatever sickness revived you into a state of un-death. Thank god you snapped out of it. It was curious, the fact that you could still bleed, but you focused on the important things. You held your hand out to the girl, now that you could think sanely, you knew she was in danger.

"W-why aren't you dying? Don't touch me Deadbrain!" *she screeched, and to your dismay, you heard rustling outside the garage. Great, now you were on a time-limit. The girl looked like she had jumped out of a gothic lolita magazine.

You ignored the pain, and the mounting collection of blood pooling in your mouth, and pushed yourself to step forward. The girl stepped back, raising the knife in defense. She still thinks you're aggressive, you have to convince her otherwise. In a desperate attempt, you throw your hands up and take a knee. Fortunately, she stops her descent, the knife hovering just above your skull.

"Y-you're... awake?" her voice is small, that of a girl in over her head, and the knife shook in her trembling hands.