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It was probably blood. Of course, she couldn’t see what was in her eye, but probabilistically speaking, it was the same shit gushing out of the gap in her rib cage. You can never really see something when it’s too close up— seeing is a sense that is meant for distance. When something gets close enough, seeing gives up and the sense of touch takes over. That’s probably why the last 20 seconds of her life weren’t experienced as visual images, but as a sequence of physical sensations. The quick friction of the knife coming up from her left side. The cool denim on her palm where her gun should have been. The endless variety of the pavement— a medium-size granite pebble under her right calf, a used cigarette crushed by her cheek. The stickiness of hemoglobin underneath a contact lens. She probably wouldn't feel it for long.
 
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