A Continental Breakfast by michaelcahill
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I switch on the light. I wolf down an early breakfast. The sun has yet to rise. A rock comes crashing through the sliding glass door, barely missing my head. That is the signal. I check the clock. It is 5:41am. I grab my phone and call my wife. "Honey, please call me. I'm worried about you. You haven't returned my calls. Love you. Bye." I walk into the backyard and kick the kitchen door in. I flip the kitchen table over. I plunge the carving knife between my sixth and seventh rib at a downward angle. It hurts more than I anticipated. I call 911. "Someone broke into my house and stabbed me. They got my wallet. Hurry, I think I'm dying." My wife is dead. I'll live. My girlfriend should be in Mazatlán waiting. I have always been more clever than the other children.
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