Okay, so first off I should really tell you that I'm not really the typical teenager. I can die but, well, I never stay dead for long. I don't know what happens but I always come back to life somehow. I guess I'm just freakishly strange.
Hold on, I really should start from the beginning. Okay, so my name is Rosemarie "Plague" Logan. I am fifteen years old, but I am much older than most people. I have experienced death, and I have dished out death like a specialty entrée. I have killed people. Which makes sense since I am morbidly insane.
Now, I guess, in a way, that I am dead. I died on my birthday, March 17, 2011, and this is my story.
"It's the birthday girl," my ravishing mother said before she stuck her boobs in my face and almost broke my back while giving me a suffocating hug.
"ARRHHHHHGGG, mom you're kind of crushing me to death," I said.
"Now I won't have you being grumpy on your birthday. Smile for our guests and have a good time."
"I don't think celebrating the fact that I'm getting older is good for my health."
"It is if you can make it worth celebrating. Now get off your toosh and get dressed!"
It took almost all of my strength not to stomp up the stairs. I mentally scolded myself for being so gross and mean to everyone. When I got to my room I stripped off my clothes and took a shower. Then I blow dried my hair and then I took the next two minutes picking what I was going to wear. I wasn't one of those girls who take hours to pick out their clothes. I have a photographic memory so I generally had an idea of what I wanted to wear today.
When I looked in the mirror to examine my mascara, my eyes started to travel down to my wrist to look at the light but visible scars. I regret the day I did that to myself and again scolded myself for being pessimistic on my birthday.
"Okay so I'm going to make the best of this situation and try to actually enjoy it," I told my reflection. Yeah right. You will never be the same since the evil took over your body. The thought passed through my mind like a shock of lightning, and I pushed it away just as quickly.
When I walked down the steps to go meet the party guests, I overheard my mother talking to my grandma.
"Mother! My own daughter has been alienating me! I don't have a clue on what to do with her. She won't even speak to me freely," my mother said.
"Have you ever tried to listen to what she has to say," grandma replied.
"Mother, she isn't cooperating with any help I'm offering her. She doesn't hang out with her friends, she doesn't talk, and I found this in her trashcan," my mother held up a bloody rag.
That was the rag I used to clean up the blood from when I attempted suicide. I managed to stop the bleeding before it got out of control.
"I found this a year ago right after the 'incident'," my mother quoted with her fingers," and I think she tried to kill herself!"
Right about then I ran out into the yard with tears streaming down my face. Your right mom, I did try to kill myself. When I saw my Uncle Stan coming toward me, I quickly wiped my tears away and attempted to smile.
"Well how is my little birthday rose," Uncle Stan said.
"I'm doing good. I just wish I wasn't getting older," and I wish you could see through the fake smile.
"It happens to all of us little chickie."
"I just want to have some fun today I guess."
"You don't have to guess, chickie, you should know in your heart if you want fun or not," my uncle said with a chuckle.
Deep down, I knew he was absolutely right. My mood quickly rose and I forgot about what my mom and grandma were arguing about. I left Uncle Stan and walked over to the cake. The cake was just a regular cheesecake, only we made it green. It looked frighteningly delicious and I licked my lips in hunger. Then I heard the doorbell ring.
"I'll get it!" I called.
I opened the door and saw my cousin Teresa and let her in. when she passed me, I saw that there was a boy in the middle of the street. I also saw that he was covered in…
Oh. My. God.
I ran to the kid and called for my mom. He was bleeding from cuts all over his body. The kid was no more than six years old. I carried him inside and laid him on the couch. I ran back outside to see where he came from and then I saw the guy with the gun.
SHIT! He was pointing it straight at me. I ran back to the house and then I heard a deafening shot.
A searing pain cut through me.
Then I blacked out.