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All created stories have to follow . We do not allow any sexually related material. The Doll Palace will be enforcing this rule and completely blocking access to the accounts that disregard our policy and create sexually oriented stories.
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Hi, my name is Katee
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 | Forever Damned [1-3] |
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 5 with 5 vote(s)
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| Created: 2008-06-02 18:58:02 |
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This is me being lazy and writing too small chapters, so they shall be grouped together. It was originally written for my friend Katee, but something happened and the story ended up getting jumbled. Still... Enjoy! You don't have a choice even if the third chappy is sucky..
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-1-
Have you ever had the strange sensation of being dead even though you can feel yourself breathing? Like, everything everyone says or does doesn't mean anything because it doesn't effect you directly or mean anything to you anymore. That's kinda what it's like when you get the strange sensation of being alive when you know you're dead.
And I was definitely dead.
It's amazing what dying can do for a girl's personality. Sitting here and watching all the people in the front funeral parlor was one of the worst moments in my afterlife. I was still connected to my body and the blood related to mine, when it had still flowed through my veins.
I silently watched Erin McCall and my other more fashionable peers crowded around my father, Randy Velds, trying to console him with kind words. All of them were acting like my best friends when less than a week ago, none of them knew my last name.
I don't know if Erin was being her usual center of attention self – which would make sense in any world, or if she genuinely cared about making my dad feel better. Hard to imagine. It sucks. This is what you do at anyone's funeral. Or when you stare at someone's dead body, because you don't have a choice, you have to say nice things. Things that don't mean anything. You tell the parents or the spouse or the annoying bratty kids that they'll be missed even if you know it's a lie.
Because you know you never had a nice word to say about anything concerning them.
-2-
It's fun not worrying over the little things. Being dead means not stressing over projects or quizzes and tests or the other trivial important things. Being dead means you have time to waste and nothing to do with it. Nothing except shadow all of your old friends and watch them crumble.
Grief consolers were in the school for two days. My best friend Janice was suddenly forced into a world of trauma and depression and I knew she would struggle. I couldn't watch her struggle because of me so I avoided her in the halls.
The bodies continued by me, rushing to their next class and not giving me a look. Like I didn't exist. It was exactly like when I was alive and right beside them. Only this time they had a reason to not look me in the eyes. I didn't exist on their plane anymore. I was just.. here.
Hands flying up to wipe away the stray wisps of hair in my face, I tried to fight back the migraine. The pain kept coming. Even though there should be no pain in death, I couldn't fight the thudding inside my head. I was thinking too much.
As if it would solve all of my problems, I ducked into a familiar classroom to ward off all thoughts. The science teacher stood in front of the class, speaking fast and expecting everyone to be taking notes. Of the twenty five students present, Daniel Gibbs was probably the only person attempting to write anything he said down.
He wrote short hand. Even in his rush to process the information, he kept it neat. His eyes never leaving Professor Haynes as he paced backwards and forwards. His fingers paused for a second and from my spot at the door, I could see him turn his head to stare at the empty seat beside him.
My seat.
We had been lab partners since the beginning of the year. He was quiet, but when he spoke – his voice always soft and gentle – it was something quirky that made me laugh. He knew the periodic table like the back of his hand, and each day he quizzed me on a different element. The last one had been Magnesium.
I took the empty seat next to him, my body suddenly feeling solid when I grasped the cold steel of the metal stool. I gasped to myself at the sudden feeling, the first I had had in forever.
Daniel's head snapped in my direction and he furrowed is eyebrows in annoyance. He reached a hand up to brush his overgrown blonde bangs over more blonde hair to snag it behind his ear. There was a bruise just visible beneath the collar of his shirt. If I leaned in closer, I could see a hand print around his neck half hidden by his hair.
I sat back in my seat, not feeling so good about the situation. How did Daniel get all those bruises? He didn't play any contact sports, none to my knowledge. Daniel was the kind of kid who got teased a lot but there was no chance that they were brought on by a bully. The only guy with enough balls to lay a finger on anyone was Gene, but he would make sure everyone say it.
Daniel continued to jot down notes while watching the clock tick. The side of his face was so pensive that I couldn't think bad things being so close to him. I glanced at his arms. They were hidden beneath his jacket, but I could feel the chills radiating from him.
I craved being detached from this moment, the oh too real feeling of dread while counting the seconds until class ended with everyone else.
-3-
Not feeling is bad. Feeling is bad. Just what about this whole dead thing could possible be mistaken for good?
How about an all access pass to the boys restroom?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a freak or anything. I'm just curious as to the harmless acts of the opposite sex. I mean, maybe they come in here to chat with their amigos like their feminine counterparts did. Did they giggle? Did it stink? Was there really a wall of names of every girl in the sophomore class with a rating and commentary?
I would have to be dead to find out.
Besides my sense of touch, sight, and sound everything else was numbed. I couldn't taste or smell. The restroom smelled exactly like everything else: nothingness. With that question unanswerable, I listened out for giggles and gossip. All I could make out was flushing and tinkles.
I shuddered at any mental images.
The bell rang and most of the stalls became empty. There was one guy who was obviously smoking in an open stall. I passed him nonchalantly and entered the last stall, the one dedicated to the handicapped and with the most space.
There was a list of names, all in different colors and a variety of styles. The girls' names were circled or underlined and comments surrounded them. I looked for a familiar name.
Janice Cobain. All of the comments were simple and obvious. Tall. Skinny. Blonde. Too many freckles. Too many zits. Wears goodwill crap – a lie! Prude.
I scoffed at their lack of maturity and moved onto someone higher in the high school food chain.
Erin McCall. Hawt. Sexy. Nice legs. Dumb as a post. An unreadable phone number, her ex must have wrote it and her current scratched it out. Keeps her legs wide open. Vicious. Delicious.
I stopped halfway. There were so many nice things and for each nice one, there was a derogatory comment. It was like that for every girl. And a couple of guys. I smirked at the wall. I wish I knew the guys that had had the guts to put another guy's name on there.
Suddenly something caught my eye. In a silver sharpie someone ad written my name. Regretting it as I did so, I moved closer to the tiny words written in the back corner. It was a list of insults.
Fat. Creepy. Stalker. Can't take a joke. Weird fashion sense. Anyone else notice her lisp? She should get a bag to cover that face. A useless band geek. Never has chapstick. Clingy. Uses big words. She's a bully. Glad she got rid of the braces, they were blinding. Actually uses 'spirit fingers'. I think she knows latin.
It ended like that. Is this seriously what people thought of me? I didn't even get a RIP. That's just bullshit. |
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