I Died

By:  Julie

I died.

I know that sounds not-so-important when held up to the statistic of how many people die on a daily basis. But how many of them wake up in the morning, perfectly healthy, and they KNOW that they’re going to die? How many people know when it happens?

How many people get the chance to grab onto a loved one and scream hey, I’m right here, and know that they cannot hear you?

How many people can wake up the next morning and know that they died and know that they’re going to die again?

When you look at it like that, it makes the words that much more powerful.

I died.

Yet, here I am, standing in front of the mirror, staring at myself, staring at the same blue eyes and almost-brown not-quite-blond lashes and pale skin and freckles that I’ve seen every day of my life for twenty years. How many people can die and stand in front of the mirror like that, wet from the shower, and look as alive as the person sleeping down the hall?

Not very many.

See, my standing here is a mistake. I almost said that I was alive there, you know, see, me standing here alive, but the truth is, I’m NOT alive. I’m a mistake.

Yeah, I died yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.

I’ve died every day for the past two years.

Because of one tiny flaw.

One drop of blood.

I was eighteen then, and if you really think about it, I haven’t aged a day since. I know what that sounds like, too. I know what you’re thing. Oh, another vampire. But no.

I’m just a kid that was caught up in something he couldn’t handle.

I wish I could go back to that day. If I had been a foot to the left, maybe less, it wouldn’t have caught me, wouldn’t have hurt me.

Wouldn’t have hit him, wouldn’t have sprayed his blood everywhere.

And those few drops wouldn’t have splattered onto my skin, wouldn’t have mixed with my own blood.

And I would have died once.

But I didn’t die once.

Oh yes, I died.

But I died yesterday too, and I’m still here telling this damn story.

So how’s that for interesting?

No, you want to hear more.

I have a scar. Just a little one, where no one can see. On my right side, just above my hip. It’s a pretty small scar, but that’s where the blood touched me. One of the places I was cut open. The only place the blood touched.

He tells me if I take more blood, I don’t have to die again.

But then I have to kill people.

He thinks that I don’t know. But I do. I know what he does.

He always tells me, "Ashley, you don’t have to kill anyone."

I’m always afraid to ask him why he does it, if he doesn’t have to. Maybe he just means me.

Me? Ashley Angel. A serial killer? Bloodsucking vampire freak?

Uh, no, thank you. I’ll settle for this endless death. But it’s just so tempting. Like all I’d have to do is take a little drink and it’s all over.

The burning inside me would be gone. I would be gone. I wouldn’t be me anymore. I’d just be something that looked like me, but not me. But I can’t.

He thinks of ways to torture me, to make me want to give up completely. He makes the blood inside me—his damn blood—burn.

And it’s not a nice burn, either. It’s like I’m tied up, like I’ve been rendered immobile, and he’s burning me. Like those witches. But I’m not sure they ever really burned them. And even if they did, they burned from the outside in, not like me.

Not from the inside out.

I died yesterday. I’ll die today. And tomorrow…

It’s my choice. After I die, I have my choice.

"Do you want me to bring you back all the way?" he’ll ask me. And I’ll tell him no, and all it takes is that one drop of blood, and poof, I’m alive, but not alive.

Guess that makes me the walking dead.

He always asks. He doesn’t just do it.

I always say no.

I know that eventually, I will tire of dying. And I’ll go to him and say, "Dan, I want you to save me."

But he can’t save me. At that point, I will be beyond salvation.

At that point, I’ll be like him.

The End

 

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