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Ever since I was a child, I was fascinated by playing a corpse. I perfected the art of simulating death with such care that I even managed to fool my own family on more than one occasion.
I remember when my mother came into my room and found me lying motionless, with my eyes open and an icy expression. Her scream of horror was music to my ears.
Eventually, I sought out secluded nooks and crannies to practice my grim performance undisturbed. An old room in the attic became my private mortuary stage.
There I would immerse myself in a state of absolute stillness for hours, letting time pass as if I had truly left this world.
One day, while performing my last show, a distant uncle discovered me by accident. Instead of being horrified, he was delighted to see me “dead”. It turned out that he had been in love with my mother from a young age and hoped that my supposed demise would set her free to be with him.
Outraged by such perversity, I decided to take my sick hobby to the extreme. I trained myself to slow my vital signs to almost imperceptible levels. My heart seemed to stop and my body temperature dropped to that of a real corpse. Such was my immobility, that at times I truly believed I had died.
The years passed and my dedication reached unsuspected levels. Until one fateful day, while I was traveling in a truck, an armed commando ambushed us without mercy. They opened fire on the passengers and I could only react by doing what I did best: faking my own death.
Stiff and inert among the real corpses, I was piled up like one more. I allowed my body to cool and acquire the tremendous rictus of the deceased. I endured the stench of death as I was dragged to a clandestine grave in the mountains.
Buried alive, I held my breath as long as I could. At dawn, when I emerged from the dead, the last sentry fled in horror at what he thought was a macabre miracle.
I had survived a real massacre thanks to my grotesque ability. That was my last and most lurid performance before I understood that death should not be a game.
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