I am fourteen years old. Last week, I died.
It wasn’t deliberate. I mean, I didn’t mean to do it. I did everything I could in order to stop it from happening, but my time had come and there was not much I could do. I ran out of ideas. And then, I died.
People wonder about me talking so bluntly about such an event. In fact, they often wonder about me talking at all. I don’t mind. It makes sense, to be honest. Dead people normally stay still and don’t start writing their life story.
Dead people also don’t normally feel particularly happy about their death, but it had always seemed inevitable. I wasn’t sure there was any way out, and I didn’t have much planned, so I just went along with it. After a bit of screaming and fighting I suppose. But again, that might be considered a little unusual for a teenage girl.
Well, I’ve never been one for conforming to stereotypes.
I suppose you could say that that comment is irrelevant. Some people might even find it offensive, though I didn’t mean to hurt anybody’s feelings. Some people find almost everything offensive, and there is not much I can do about that.
So I just ignore them. It’s easier and it saves headaches all round. Sooner or later they’ll realise that they’re just being silly and will shut up. That’s what I’ve found up until now, and I don’t see why it should change, just because I’m dead.
You know, it’s not such a big deal as I always imagined. Then again, I am a little different to most people. I didn’t entirely die. Because I was intending to let go of life, life itself decided that actually, it wasn’t ready to let me go just yet. I wasn’t bothered, so it made sure it would do just what I didn’t want it to.
Keep me here, in a half-life, half-death sort of phase, until somebody came along and freed me. Which, to be honest, was not looking particularly likely. How often is it that you’re hanging there, inhabiting a strange, sort-of-ghost-world, when a hero equipped with the knowledge and equipment to free you turns up? Not very. And though I’ve been told that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten, I’m not convinced.
After all, I didn’t win the lottery either. Probably because I’m too young to buy a ticket, and I’ve never shown any interest in entering anyway. Seems pointless.
Mind you, I wasn’t expecting to go and die before I was even old enough. It just doesn’t seem quite fair, does it? I died before I’d even lived. Which just completely and utterly sucks, and I’ve even managed to lose my mind sufficiently that I forget to tell you what I came here to explain.
I haven’t told you how or why or where or when I died. So I suppose I should.