LIVING DEAD GIRL

       I wasn’t expecting my mother to have such a negative reaction to my secret. I mean, I understand that most parents would be alarmed to learn that their daughter witnessed her dead friend crawl out from under her bed, but I wasn’t prepared for the shit storm that followed. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that she asked me to help her look for her missing limbs. I also probably shouldn’t have mentioned that I found her missing limbs in my toy box. Apparently, to my mother, this meant that I was suffering from hallucinations brought on by trauma caused by the funeral. But, I was just telling her the truth because I was concerned for my dearly departed friend. I was trying to be a nice person. Can you honestly tell me that if your friend asked you to help her look for her missing limbs, you would tell her no? Okay, please don't answer that.

       As if the whole “crawling out from under the bed” scenario wasn’t bad enough, my mom needed just one more visual hallucination to validate whether or not I was in need of immediate psychiatric attention. The only problem was that we were broke, so seeking professional help was out of the question. This didn’t make her a bad mother, it just meant she had to be clever. It wasn't long before her own diagnosis shifted from hallucinations to night terrors. This caused her to switch to a more unconventional method of therapy. She went out and purchased a little wooden box, presumably from the black market, with what appeared to be six tiny voodoo dolls. They were faceless, had twigs for legs, and smelled like mint. My mom persuaded me that placing these “worry dolls” under my pillow would take away my nightmares. I truly believed with all my little heart that these things were bursting with magical voodoo nightmare-stealing properties. I also thought I would go to hell for using them, but that’s not the point. Oddly enough, they worked for a short while, but it wasn’t long before the dolls began to disappear. They probably fell under my bed only to later be sucked up by the vacuum, but I was completely convinced that my dead friend ate them while I slept.

       White noise was my mom’s next weapon of choice. She thought a fan would lull me to sleep and keep me unconscious despite the fact that there was a dead girl at my bedside whispering my name. Needless to say, most nights ended with me sneaking into my parents’ room and cuddling on the floor with the family pitbull. That dog took shit from no one, not even my possibly real, possibly imaginary, once alive, but now clearly dead ghost friend.

       My mom’s next theory was that I was just incredibly lonely, so my mind had constructed this new identity as an imaginary friend, though she was horrifying. She thought buying me a new pet would help numb the loneliness. This didn’t exactly pan out, however, because not long after we got the animal, some man in a big truck came barreling down the road and split my kitty in half. It wasn’t long after that I became convinced I was seeing my dead cat everywhere. His favorite resting spot was on top of the air conditioner, which I thought was because he wanted to keep his body preserved in some sort of cryogenically-frozen-dead-cat way. My mom insisted he wasn’t there, but I clearly saw him, shredded tissue, missing eyeball, and all. At this point, I was collecting either dead imaginary friends or imaginary dead friends. I’m still not entirely certain. It wasn’t long after this that she attempted to get me out of the house more often. She began dropping me off at my grandpa’s house, hoping he could reintroduce me to normalcy. Instead, he handed me a caffeinated beverage, a BB gun, and turned me loose in the woods. I had the time of my life.

       When my mom forced me into a girl scout troop, everything really went downhill. I was so desperate to fit in, but those girls were little bitches with overweight mothers who smelled like cigarettes and collected ugly dolls. I hated it. I only liked selling cookies because I knew that not only would my mom buy some, but she would also share them with me. I eventually left girl scouts to become a recluse-in-training and it was something I was damn good at. I became a pro at avoiding people lest they die tragically, appear at my bedside, and interrupt my sleep. Again.

       Although my mom originally insisted that what I was going through was my way of coping with trauma, there was still a part of her that feared I was suffering from paranormal experiences. Quick to avoid the potential situation of a dead child haunting her house, she purchased a book for me that would, in her mind, undoubtedly ease my anxiety. Buying me a book and taking advantage of my love for reading wasn’t the worst thing she could have done. Who knew a book about the paranormal would be found in the self-help section? Unfortunately, I learned the book was not totally equipped to help me with my situation, because it mentioned nothing about corpse limbs appearing in my toy box or dead girls under my bed. It also failed to provide advice for when deceased friends ask for help in locating their missing body parts. However, I did learn how to cleanse a house, call upon my higher self, and use baking powder to find footprints left by unsuspecting 'ghosties'.

ALL OF MY FRIENDS ARE DEAD

         In elementary school, I was not the most popular kid and it was difficult to relate to others. To this day, I don't know if it was because I was awfully shy or they were all just stupid. There were only a select few who really made an effort to be nice to me. One girl in particular talked to me every day on the bus and invited me to sit with her at lunch. We talked about animals, roller skating, Lisa Frank, Goosebumps, and how we were pretty sure the school janitor lived in the boiler room. One day, I lost my ring on the playground. I knew I would be in trouble because I took the ring without permission from my mom's jewelry box. My friend spent the entire recess period helping me look for it, all while telling me how excited she was to get her braces removed the next day. After her dentist appointment, she would be going to her dad's house and she couldn't wait to show him her smile. She was absolutely ecstatic. 

       She died in a car accident before she could make it to her dad's house -- just two days before Halloween.

       I had to listen to every student on the bus speculate about what happened during her final moments. Some said she flew through the windshield, landed in a ditch, and was crushed by the other car instantly. Others said she landed in the ditch, remained conscious for a few minutes, asked rescuers for her mom, and then faded out. A few claimed she was split in half. Some said she didn't die until they finally made it to the hospital. But, everyone agreed she would never get to show her dad her new smile. 

       I didn't offer anyone my input. I kept to myself. It wasn't until later in the day when a teacher caught me crying in the bathroom that I was ushered to the makeshift "grieving center." I recognized a few of the kids sitting around the circular table. I didn't like any of them. My teacher asked if I wanted to go home, but I told her no. As soon as she asked us to "talk about it", I told her that I had changed my mind. During the ride home, my mom asked if I wanted to attend the funeral. Without even thinking about what that would entail, I said yes. I remember her whispering to herself, "I've never been to a child's funeral before." 

       I signed my name in the guestbook and kept my eyes to the ground. I could hear the sniffles and sobs of various family members. I couldn't bring myself to look at anyone. For one moment, I let my eyes stray to the white and pink casket nestled between two wreaths. Her hands rested upon her stomach and her blonde curls kept her face hidden from my view. My mom grabbed my hand and lead me to the front of the room. My eyes remained glued to the floor until I mustered up enough courage to look in the casket. She didn't look like herself. Her skin was made of a pale stone. I wondered if the kids at school were right. Maybe she had been split in two. Maybe she had been split into so many pieces that they couldn't have an open casket, so they decided to make a wax replica of her instead. I'd never seen a person with skin like dusty porcelain. I stared for longer than I should have, half expecting her to open her eyes, look over, and smile at me. My mom pulled me away from the casket and we took our seats. I don't remember the rest of the service.

LET'S GO ON AN ADVENTURE, SHALL WE?

       Most children would never dream of discovering a dead body, but it was a hobby of mine to try to stumble across one while exploring the wilderness alone. Although, I will admit that I was more intrigued by the thought of solving a murder mystery myself rather than seeing the body. I was a Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, Edgar Allan Poe, and Agatha Christie fan. The truth is that I wouldn't have known what to do with a dead body if I found one. I just wanted to try to figure out how it got there. It had to be a dead body though. Someone only slightly unconscious would have been tragically dull. 

       My parents never hesitated to get rid of me when the opportunity presented itself. I was usually sent to a babysitters house or some relative who didn't give a single fuck about what I was doing. Their only job was to make sure I was still breathing by the end of the day. This usually meant that as long as I was within earshot, I could go wherever and do whatever I pleased. Sometimes I might have strayed a bit too far, but I loved going into the woods and acting out scenes just like in the scary movies my aunt made me watch. I would walk around dramatically, pretending to be stalked by a deranged killer, who might at any moment jump out from behind a tree and grab me. Why was this one of my favorite pastimes you ask? Well, it's fun. Have you ever tried it? Don't knock it until you've tried it. 

       Anyway, my mom watched the news every morning, so I was always hearing about another dead guy discovered in the woods by a jogger or some other "lucky" citizen. I began to assume that wooded areas were the prime dumping ground for corpses. After spending so much time in the woods, it was only natural that I would expect to stumble upon one, right? Okay, maybe not natural... 

       Realistically, the creepiest thing that I encountered during one of my little adventures was a snake. It slithered right across my feet and I'm pretty sure I stood in place for a good ten minutes before running down the path and tripping over an exposed tree root. Blood everywhere. However, I never discovered any cadavers. How unfortunate.

WELL, IT'S NO WONDER THE GIRL IS OBSESSED WITH THE DEAD

       Children are dangerously impressionable. Their little brains soak up as much knowledge as possible and they're incredibly observant. They also make it a point to imitate those around them when it's least appropriate. This means that most parents avoid using curse words around their kids.

       My stepfather tried to pay me to say "fuck." But, that's not the point. He also drew the most grotesque, gruesome illustrations while in a manic state. I used to flip through his sketch book completely enthralled by the macabre figures. My aunt went out of her way to introduce me to every violent and gore-packed horror film she could possibly think of. My uncle made no effort, while I looked over his shoulder, to hide the photos he viewed of people online who had been hit by cars, shot in the head, stabbed repeatedly, or asphyxiated. I was regularly exposed to death and decay at a young age. My heightened curiosity and morbid fascination could only mean one logical thing in the end. It would become my obsession.