Dear diary,
My story does not start at my birth. My story starts at my end because I'm no longer a teenage girl who drinks too much or fails too many tests, now I'm a loss of potential, never getting older and never getting better. Never getting ugly. A snapshot of an ideal, like a lingerie model whose advertisements outlive her. Everybody wants a smiling prom queen and not a 50 year old secretary. Everybody wants an image of unending innocence that they can only get from a girl who never gets to grow up. I can't be a deadbeat or a single mother or a whore if I'm forever in my grave and the only thing left of me is my picture on the wall.
I was always going to be known for dying.
My death is my identity. Local girl dead at [insert age that's 'way too young to die']. I am the sad messages stuck to my locker. I am the wilting bouquets set down on our front porch. I am my closest friends dialing my phone even though I can't pick up. I am my mom's tears tracing paths through her makeup. I am my father's rage at having something so precious taken away from him. I am "she was-."
Even before I died, everyone knew it was going to happen soon. Everyone kept me at a distance, the girl in the room who was always five minutes away from leaving. I was the hint of cigarettes on your friend's lips, just for a second, you'd think it was there, but you can never pick up on it again. I was temporary, and everybody knew it.
I was a ghost in every room I ever stepped into.
I was only ever pretty in a way that would be missed when I was gone, only smart because I'd never get a chance to prove it. The only reason I'll be remembered is because of what was taken from me. My actual life, the one that gets painted over and erased, like the foot prints on the shoreline, immediately erased by the rising tides, if no one can see it, it was never there to begin with. A blank canvas for them to project all of their dreams onto.
Friends avoided making plans over a month away, nobody wanted to expect me somewhere just for me not to show up.
Boyfriends never stuck around for more than a week, never wanting the responsibility of being part of the eulogy.
Teachers were too lenient, sad smiles and bonus points because they knew what a tough time I would be going through.
My parents kept extensive photo albums with long summaries on the backs and a special posterboard for remarkable moments in my life (it made a prominent appearance at my funeral.)
But even I had known I was bound to die soon.
I could feel it whenever I crossed the street or walked past a dark alley. My death was always one breath away it just depended on the day.
When it happened, it just finalized everything they knew from the start.
I was just a challenge for them to overcome, to see who guessed right; who predicted when and how it would happen, an opportunity to see who could create the better sob story for their college applications.
"My best friend died so suddenly I feel like our friendship barely even began.” vs “We had so many plans for when we made it out of this place, it feels wrong to even try without her."
I was a few dollars lost, a sad backstory for people to tell 5 years down the line. I was comforting lies everyone told themselves for not saving me from the future they were all expecting. I was barely a teenage girl when I was alive and now all I am is dead.
I was never going to make it out of this town and we all knew it. Maybe my death will get one of them into college. Maybe my death with get them enough gas in their tanks for them to get out.
Everyone's going to miss me. Not a single one of them liked me.
The world must fucking hate me. It used to, at least. But now that I'm finally in my grave, everyone loves me.
The world doesn't fucking care, most likely.
Sincerely,
Another Dead Bitch