I’m dead. And it sucks.
No one wants to hang out with me. Apparently I smell bad. Well duh, what else would you expect from rotting flesh? You wouldn’t go to the bins behind a butchers expecting to smell roses, so why people judge me I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t wash.
I’ve been dead for two years. I was 12 when it happened. Bitten by a Rabid. It’s been an unusual death. I’ve kept growing. You think puberty is bad when you’re alive, try being dead too.
However, there’s one ray of light in my otherwise morbid and overcast existence. Stephanie. She’s so beautiful, but she doesn’t even know me. Well, other than as ‘that lesbian’. Oh yeah, in my town, being gay is considered far worse than being dead. People just ignore a corpse, like they walk past graves. But they hate that I like girls.
The Write Site 