The Waiting Room

Skye never had the best life. All she ever wanted was to die, but now she has the choice, is it really that simple?


2. When I Lived

After you die there is nothing but light.

Well, it's all I can see anyway. And I'm floating. Somehow, the skanky hospital gown I was in a few minutes ago has transformed into a white robe, my skin just a shade too dark to be camouflaged by it. This isn't what hell is supposed to look like. That's where they said I'd go, my foster parents. My whole body is still sore from the constant beatings, but now the bruises and the scars are gone and I guess I could almost look normal.

It's getting too bright for my sore, red eyes but even shutting them won't stop the light blaring through. I have no choice but to just suffer through it. So this is what death is like. Just as lonely and as isolated as life, but just a whole lot brighter. I've come to an understanding, in my short-lived life, that no matter what I hope for, it will always be a disappointment. Death was supposed to be a way out of the loneliness and the isolation, but instead it's just made it worse.

You see, when I was three my parents were in a car accident. It killed my dad. Everyone seems to stop me at that point to say "I'm sorry" or to ask endless questions, but this time I get to carry on. We were a happy family of four: me, my mum, my dad and my older brother, Jack, who was 15. I can't really remember much else from back then, except my dad's distinct smell of car fuel, after shave and a hint of my mum's perfume. Anyway, my mum was driving her and my dad to some show, I think, but the car spun out of control on the motorway and my dad died at the scene. My mum blamed herself and it made her go off the rails. Each night another man would come back to the house, drunk of course, and would be gone when I woke up in the morning. She'd take drugs, she'd drink all day and cry all night.

She never cared about me.

And Jack wasn't much use either when he ran away and left me. I was 4 years old. I could barely feed and bathe myself and I was getting thinner and thinner until one day when social services came and took me to a new family in a new part of London. Their names were Bryan and Michelle Thomas and they "looked after" me until I died. Well, if you call looking after me tying me up at night and using my as their own personal punch bags. At first it hurt so bad, but as I got older, even though they were punching me harder, it got easier and easier to take. I guess it's true that when you are subjected to something for so long, you get used to it. It becomes normal.

So, I'm not sure how I died but it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

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