I died 3 years ago.
There’s no other explanation, is there? She’s so different from this person that I am. And she definitely, certainly, should have died.
She had plans laid out in her head, neat rows of death to pick from. The trainyard behind her house has plenty of tracks to pick from; the roof of her high school is probably too low, but if she angled it just right, she could crack open her skull on the pavement; with her selection of pill bottles, she could spike the serotonin in her brain to lethal levels; failing all this, all it would take is going really mad, and provoking a cop with a gun and fear of the mentally ill.
It just doesn’t make sense that a girl with a library of death would find a way to live. It also doesn’t make sense that she’d stop being a girl. She was so proud to declare that women could do things too, to stick it to the men around her. She loved skirts and accessories and experimenting with fashion too much to give it up for the drab world of men’s clothing. And of course, she was beautiful. Ringlet hair, long lashes. Ample breasts, soft and large and cushiony, rendering all her clothes just a touch too tight. Wide hips, curves for grabbing. Why forsake that? What a waste. What a fucking waste.
None of my choices make any sense if that girl was me. Why would she fall in love with her enemy? The boy who harassed her. The boy who caused all sorts of problems. She found him so ugly - not me. I know that he’s handsome. My heart swells when I see him, and I feel equal parts safe and energized with attraction. It just doesn’t make sense… unless the old him died, too? It goes beyond him, though. She had friends, friends who won’t even talk to me. She would write, with passion, with fever - I can hardly get words on a page. She was an endless whirlwind of energy, passion and suicidal ideation and lust, all sorts of things I can hardly muster.
Most of all, she was a scientist. Rather, she would’ve been one, if she hadn’t died. Her mind for research was astounding at times, and she had a passion to direct it towards. She talked of neuroscience, of insects, of atomic structure. Only 17 years old, and she had a list of theories to pursue. She found real scientists where she could, and bombarded them with questions. The little mad scientist. Art was always secondary.
When her future started to fade to gray, she promised herself she’d kill herself if she couldn’t be a scientist.
She must’ve killed herself.
This listless boy, unhappy but with a cowardly attachment to life, can’t be her. He’s not a scientist. He’s not a genius. On the contrary - he’s really quite stupid, down to his core. He wants to cut off the breasts that this girl would flaunt. He loves those she hated, and is hated by those she loved. He doesn’t really have it in him to die. He doesn’t have it in him to do much of anything. He’s almost certainly a walking corpse.
So here lies Maya, laid to rest. One of her countless suicide plans must have worked. This academic girl must’ve had her wish to die granted, somewhere along the line.
But she never could have predicted that she left behind a ghost.