I am dead. Yeah that’s my name. From the point of my arrival in this world I became Dead. I have no recollection of my life when I had been living, no one else here seems to either. They all have their own names, but not Dead. Apparently most don’t seem to enjoy facing the reality of their deaths. I remember how I died. Very clearly really; it’s hard to forget when my scars meet me every time I look in the mirror.
I was 16, and though I don’t remember how I got to the point of facing my passing, I know nearly everything about how I died. And sometimes I know who did it. I was walking in an alley-way, (possibly a shortcut to home), and I smelled of coffee and mocha along with flour on the hem of my t-shirt. Yes, I was wearing a Green-Day t-shirt with shorts and black converse sneakers with neon pink laces. To me it sounds quite typical though I don’t really remember who Green-Day is. The only reason I knew that’s what who it was, was because the name was across the t-shirt in white, black, and pink lettering.
I know now someone was following me, hidden in the shadows with his gleaming yet crude blade. He was a stalker and serial killer, marking each victim with a number. I was #16 ironically enough. That incision in the shape of the number 16 still rests against my cheek today, a faded reminder of what I’d once went through, and died from.
There are several other lines trailing their way up my arms and legs were he’d had his fun, slicing thin cuts met to bleed and not to kill. In truth I had suffered, the pain had been excruciating, but if I hadn’t some other girl would be telling this story. A whole different story of confusion and pain, not knowing why she was the one he chose to kill. Why her? Why not me?
The 15 others were boys and girls alike, varying between the ages of 14 through 18. I’ve met one boy, who calls himself Caleb. He was number 4. He saw my scar as I’d seen his own and we confided into one another, confessing bleak stories of our lives and passing. He was killed 7 years ago, while I had kept my life up until 6 months ago. Caleb also died at 16 years old.
He told me he died with a girl, though she had survived and not bled out like the others. “She sees me, but I can’t recall her name. She cries every time she tries to call out to me, so I stopped coming around. We were together when I died, dressed in Saturday night date clothes.” He paused to wipe away fallen tears and suck in an unsteady breath. “I think she was my girlfriend, I know we were in love.”
I was 16, and though I don’t remember how I got to the point of facing my passing, I know nearly everything about how I died. And sometimes I know who did it. I was walking in an alley-way, (possibly a shortcut to home), and I smelled of coffee and mocha along with flour on the hem of my t-shirt. Yes, I was wearing a Green-Day t-shirt with shorts and black converse sneakers with neon pink laces. To me it sounds quite typical though I don’t really remember who Green-Day is. The only reason I knew that’s what who it was, was because the name was across the t-shirt in white, black, and pink lettering.
I know now someone was following me, hidden in the shadows with his gleaming yet crude blade. He was a stalker and serial killer, marking each victim with a number. I was #16 ironically enough. That incision in the shape of the number 16 still rests against my cheek today, a faded reminder of what I’d once went through, and died from.
There are several other lines trailing their way up my arms and legs were he’d had his fun, slicing thin cuts met to bleed and not to kill. In truth I had suffered, the pain had been excruciating, but if I hadn’t some other girl would be telling this story. A whole different story of confusion and pain, not knowing why she was the one he chose to kill. Why her? Why not me?
The 15 others were boys and girls alike, varying between the ages of 14 through 18. I’ve met one boy, who calls himself Caleb. He was number 4. He saw my scar as I’d seen his own and we confided into one another, confessing bleak stories of our lives and passing. He was killed 7 years ago, while I had kept my life up until 6 months ago. Caleb also died at 16 years old.
He told me he died with a girl, though she had survived and not bled out like the others. “She sees me, but I can’t recall her name. She cries every time she tries to call out to me, so I stopped coming around. We were together when I died, dressed in Saturday night date clothes.” He paused to wipe away fallen tears and suck in an unsteady breath. “I think she was my girlfriend, I know we were in love.”
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