The Victim and Death

For most of us, Death is the end. For the vicitm, Death is only the beginning. This is the story of how she died, and how her fear of Death had more physical presence in reality than she could have ever dreamt to dread. The victim, formerly Maegan Murphy of Reeldale Academy for Girls, was born 15th November 1995 and died 25th November 2011. She had lived a good life, it was nothing exciting but she had enjoyed it while it lasted. Now she's dead, murdered to be exact, and Death has come to collect his payment... or has he? Or, more importantly, CAN he?

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2. The Victim and Life

Saturday 26th November

Sometimes I feel as if I’m hated. I really, really do.

          I don’t know what her problem is, though. To Nathalie it seems I have committed a great crime, an ultimate treason, and then escaped punishment, whilst laughing in her face. Or as if I have stolen her life, her boy, and then turned her into a social outcast. I am not like that at all. Those events belong in American cliché films, where the perfect pretty girl smears her foundation onto the also perfect protagonist’s path. This is real life, and in mine and Nathalie’s case, the roles are generally reversed.

          I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not perfect, and wouldn’t know how to act it. Nathalie, on the other hand, is all for it. She loves the persona of superiority, and can’t resist the chance to prove it.

          I know she took it. It was a present too. I got it as well as that gorgeous, ornate mirror for my birthday last week, and already it's been stolen, and stolen by her too. I have all the usual evidence.  Real life doesn’t have fingerprints and clothing fibres, especially in my reality. I have all the proof in her sneer and expression when I confronted her this morning. She claimed to not even like green, saying she would have to be screwed in the head to ever wear something I have loved. But that was beside the point, I persisted, and as a result I got a stony silence, and a pair of daggers.

          Nathalie was never one to love to converse with me.

          She is wrapped up in her own world, in love with her movie set life. That is the ignorant impression I got when she called my blouse green. Any fool can plainly see it is emerald. It even shimmers. Or it did shimmer, before it was stolen by a psycho who would stop at nothing to make my life a misery.

          My new roommate is charming, isn’t she?

          Last night, something–

          The victim paused, her feathery, pink pen hovering over the page of her hard-back diary. There was something else she wanted to write, whispering away in the back of her subconscious, but she couldn’t quite put her long, well manicured finger on it. There was something wrong, apart from her use of the English language. Something that didn’t fit with the other jigsaw pieces that joined together, however obscurely, to form her life. She left the sentence where it was, and hid the diary; like she so often did she didn’t have to think about it, behind the near empty bookcase.

Today’s entry hadn’t said all she wanted to say, to the only person who would listen to her mindless small talk, but the victim shrugged it off her shoulders. The last thing she wanted was to carry the weight of her problem around with her all day. It would affect her posture.

She passed a mirror on the way out of her cluttered room, and couldn’t resist the urge to check her appearance, to see if it was as good as she had thought it had looked ten minutes ago. The elaborate, carved border framed her head and shoulders, and she was glad to see her blonde ponytail hadn’t moved an inch. She grinned, and it lit up her pale, heart-shaped face. The victim loved the way her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, even more so than usual that day. She didn’t question it, much less fear it. Her only regret was that she didn’t have her emerald blouse to complete the look.

At that moment the door swung open and the victim instantly regretted her decision to glance in the mirror, as her vanity had slowed her escape. Her hour of lonely bliss had come to an end, as Nathalie More burst into the room, with such force a gale assaulted the victim’s hair, knocking her ponytail slightly to the left. In her horror she didn’t even notice.

As she caught sight of the victim, Nathalie stopped dead in the doorway, her shallow, indigo eyes narrowing to two, equal slits. Her dark curls recoiled in disgust at the victim’s existence, her presence in the room. She tightened her leather jacket around her curvy frame, to protect herself from the evil that was her roommate.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed, her attractive features twisting into something unpleasant. “I told you to leave. I have friends coming over.”

“Just going,” the victim assured Nathalie, tired of this conversation already. Not that it was much of a conversation; it was more Nathalie talking to her, and the victim replying. The victim wished so dearly that she could summon a sarcastic, clever comment to fire back at this awful girl, but her little brains deserted her every time.

“Hurry up then,” Nathalie snapped. Each word was harsh on the victim’s ears, and she made for the door, head down, completely against disobeying someone who could make her life hell.

The victim exited the room; glad to be rid of the person she had been stuck with since the beginning of October. Just before she could exhale a sigh of relief, she was stopped with an unexpected call of, “Wait!”

“What now?” The victim groaned, not caring that her tone was impatient and totally unacceptable.  

“I told you to tidy up.”

The victim looked back at her basic, pristine dorm hidden beneath a sea of disorder, lit with a single, large window on the other side of the room. Stray notes for her English classes (the only ones, in the victim's opinion, that mattered) were piled high on the unmade bed and the contents of her make-up bag were scattered across the floor. Items of clothing, both her uniform and her own, were dumped in piles at the foot of her bed, discarded and forgotten. The only clean area was surrounding a wardrobe (probably containing the victim's blouse), dresser and bed, squeezed into the corner of the small room last minute. It was such a contrast to hers there could have easily have been a barrier, preventing the chaos spilling into the enclosed space. The victim could easily remember making the mess, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t recall being told to tidy it up.    

“No you didn’t,” she said idiotically.

“I did, Maegan.”

The victim stared blankly at her, unable to think of anything else to do, feeling there was something wrong about this entire exchange.

“For God’s sake, I told you last night after you went out to that stupid party.”

With these words the victim froze over and a chill galloped down her spine, “I–”

“Never mind now,” her roommate grumbled, bending down in one, unhurried movement to retrieve a stray lip-gloss, “I’ll just chuck anything on the floor in the bin.”

With a triumphant smirk at her own brilliance, Nathalie slammed the door in the victim’s face, the sound echoing down the corridor either side of her. She stared, motionless, at the golden number 236, where Nathalie’s striking head had just been. The victim was horror-struck, but not because she was concerned that half her belongings were now going in the trash, or that she had been kicked out of her own room just because she existed.

She was more bothered by the fact that she was absolutely certain she hadn’t gone to any party last night, let alone a stupid one.

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