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Beyond the Grave

“We were her best friends,” they explain, dressed in tight black dresses. “We told each other everything!”

Now, let me narrate this story for you, from beyond the grave.


The day this all began: September 11th. My first day of high school. I had been looking forward to it all summer, shopping endlessly for the perfect tumblr worthy clothes. My closet was stuffed with the newest styles, everything from lace, to sequins, to tie die. I had bought enough makeup to mask the imperfections of every girl on Americas Next Top Model. The new straightener and curling wand I bough cost a fortune, but I looked perfect when I used them.

I guess that was the goal the whole time. Perfection.


Although I was fully prepared for my first day, in some barely butt covering denim shorts and a crop top, with my blonde hair curled to perfection and my eyes looking as blue as the sky, I still felt a feeling of dread fill the pit of my stomach as my dad drove me to school. Every high schooler gets this emotion. You know the one I’m talking about: the one you get when you know you don’t belong.

I guess I shouldn’t have worried; I would be there long.


I walked in the halls with sudden confidence, attracting stares of boys and girls alike. Of course, all the girls were planning to be friends with me so they wouldn’t have to compete. The guys however, were just being guys; staring at every girl with a decent face and hot body.

I can’t believe how superficial I was.


I made friends within seconds. A group of girls, I would be the fourth in their crew. The blonde squad was their nickname. They were the most popular girls in the school; everyone wanted to be them. And I was one. We laughed, gossiped, did stupid teenager things. I guess that’s why the months went by so fast.

I still don’t remember what I learned on that first day in school. What a shame.


Before I knew it, it was already March. And at this stereotypical high school, it was called March Mayhem for a reason. Parties were going on nearly every single day. I was invited to them all. Finally, our squad decided to go to one. Some boy, I can’t remember his name, was throwing it. Everyone was drunk, and overly flirtatious. I hated it.

If only I hadn’t stepped outside for some air…


The cool breeze pushed the hair away from my face as I stepped onto the deck. I remember the pool, its chloriny luminescence glowing in the night sky. I remember the drunk boys behind me. I remember, I can feel when they pushed me in.

I’d like to see the look on their face when they found me.


The boys walked away, but my body remained. At that point I was already gone. But the funny thing about death is, you don’t just disappear. You stay hovered, near the people you had closest ties with. That’s right: dead people are stalkers. My body hovered over to tree. I heard the shriek. I saw my body, the purple dress fanning away from me, the curls floating mermaid-like.

How long was it before the drunken teenagers called 911?


I was there, in the ambulance. I wasn’t sure when it was. Contrary to what most people think, the deceased are not equipped with a built in app store to buy apps from. I can’t give myself a calendar, a watch or even FaceTime. You probably know the ending to this story. You guessed it: I couldn’t be revived. The foster family was currently living with didn’t even bother to come to the hospital.

I’m still amazed the blonde squad paid for my funeral. It touched my cold, dead heart.


And here I am. I float about, watching my friends react to the horrors previously masked by closed doors. They always thought we were so close, that we were bonded for life. But they didn’t know the half of it, how I was in foster care because my parents OD’d, how the foster families beat me and still got state money, how I worked my butt off from 9 until 4 at McDonalds to earn my clothes.


“Why didn’t she tell us?” they all ask in turn, expressions of shock and realization on their faces.

If only I was alive, I know exactly what I would say. “Oh darlings; you never even asked.”



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