I should've died today. I knew it as soon as I opened my eyes to the sharp scent of disinfectant and the steady beeping of a heart monitor. The sterile whiteness of the hospital room made it feel like I'd woken up in a nightmare. My chest tightened, panic bubbling up as I struggled to recall how I got here.

A doctor strolled in, his face too calm for someone who had just walked in on a walking disaster.

"You're lucky," he said, flipping through my chart. "You got clipped by a truck. But aside from a few bruises, you're good to go. Someone's watching over you."

Someone's watching over me? If only he knew.

The second I stepped out of the hospital doors, I felt the weight of the universe shift, like some invisible hand had decided it was time to toy with me again. I barely took five steps before I heard the sound of metal screeching above me. I glanced up, and my blood ran cold—a piano was swinging loose from a crane.

My body moved on instinct. I dove sideways as the piano came crashing down where I'd just stood. Shards of wood and wire scattered across the sidewalk. Heart hammering, I sat on the curb, catching my breath. I should've been flattened. Just another day.

But that wasn't the end of it. It never was.

As I limped away, I dodged an army of pigeons dive-bombing my head, their wings flapping inches from my face. I barely had time to process that before a guy juggling knives stumbled into my path, nearly gutting me as he tripped. I swerved, heart racing, and somehow avoided the disaster.

By the time I reached my apartment building, I was drenched in sweat and my nerves were shot. The last time I touched the panel to open the door, I ended up in the hospital again. This time, I wasn't taking chances. I pulled out a rubber glove and cautiously pressed the button. No shocks. A small victory.

Inside, I hurried through the hallway, sticking close to the wall like I was navigating a minefield. I've had doors burst open in my face, firecrackers lobbed at my feet, and a kid with a slingshot once took a chunk of hair off my scalp. I wasn't about to tempt fate.

I reached my apartment door, breathless. The lock clicked, and I stepped inside, closing it behind me as if that could keep the chaos out. My one-bedroom apartment was tiny, crammed with mismatched furniture I'd picked up from thrift stores, but it was safe—at least for now.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, the cold condensation soothing against my palm, and sank into the couch. I turned on the TV, hoping for some mindless distraction, but instead, it blared static at full volume. Typical.

Rolling my eyes, I reached for the remote. Before I could turn it off, there was a knock at the door. My body tensed. No one ever knocked on my door unless it was bad news.

I grabbed the gun I kept by the couch and looked through the peephole. Mrs. Wilkinson stood there, smiling sweetly with a casserole dish in her hands. She was harmless, just the well-meaning neighbor who liked to check in on me now and then. I put the gun back down and opened the door.

"Hi, Mrs. Wilkinson," I said, forcing a smile.

"Oh, hello, dear!" she chirped, her voice too chipper for this late in the evening. "I made some extra lasagna. Thought you might like some!"

I took the casserole, trying not to wince at the memory of her last lasagna, which had tasted like cardboard soaked in tomato sauce. "Thanks," I said, managing a polite nod.

"You're welcome, dear! You really should come to dinner one night. My granddaughter's been asking about you again."

I managed to mumble something vague about being busy, and after an excruciating five-minute exchange, Mrs. Wilkinson finally tottered off, leaving me alone again.

I put the casserole dish on the counter, staring at it as the weight of everything settled over me. I used to have friends. I used to laugh, make plans, go on dates. Now, my only interactions were with my neighbors or the occasional delivery guy.

Things weren't always this bad. I remember being a kid, running through the park with my friends, blissfully unaware of the world's cruelty. But that changed the day my best friend broke his leg trying to climb a tree I'd dared him to scale. From then on, things spiraled. Accidents, injuries, close calls—everywhere I went, people got hurt.

It wasn't just bad luck. It was like something dark had latched onto me, shadowing my every step. My ex-girlfriend, the last person to stick around, left after a tree crushed our car during a storm. "I can't live like this anymore," she had said, tears streaming down her face as she packed her things.

I couldn't blame her.

I took a long swig of my beer, letting the cold liquid slide down my throat as I stared at the TV's static. Was this my life now? Sitting alone in a cramped apartment, dodging disasters, and avoiding any human connection for fear that someone else would get hurt?

The oven dinged. Mrs. Wilkinson's lasagna was ready, but I wasn't hungry. I got up anyway, pulled the dish out, and set it on the counter. As I stood there, I found myself wondering if there was any point in all of this. Living in fear, always looking over my shoulder. Was this really living?

I shook the thought away. Tomorrow would be another day. Another set of near-misses, another round of chaos to survive. Maybe one day I'd figure out why this was happening—why death seemed so intent on catching up to me.

But not tonight.