Nowhere To Go

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It was a dark and stormy night...

Just kidding. I have no idea what the weather is like. I'm not even sure what day it is. Or what year, for that matter. The only reason I think it's night is because of the darkness. It's always dark here. But really...there's only two things I'm entirely sure of. The first is that I never made it to the Nirvana concert. The second is that Relic Slam is a giant douche. Oh. And maybe there's a third thing, then. That those two details are pretty much destroying my afterlife.

Did I mention that I'm dead? No? Well, it's a fact. One minute, I was tightening the plaid shirt around my waist, checking my lip ring in my friend Arli's little mirror, and enjoying being sixteen. The next...well. You probably don't want to hear the real rest, so I'll skip to the part where I opened my eyes, saw the crowd gathered around, and wondered what the hell was happening. I pushed my way through the wave of patchouli-scented, army-booting-wearing people so I could see what they were staring at. And there it was. There was. Lying in a pool of my own blood, eyes sightless, a  copy of the school newspaper gripped in my hand. And Relic's stupid face was in the bottom corner of the front page. 

Which brings me back to the guy's general douche-baggery. Let's start with the fact that in spite of his name, Relic is most definitely not a rock star. He's nothing more than a wannabe journalist. One who wrote a story about me, then published it in the aforementioned school newspaper. Pre-blunt-force-trauma, of course. And that would be fine. Except it was mostly lies. The two of us never went on a date. He never told me the answer to the radio contest that won me the tickets to the show. But it's hard to fight against the written word. Especially in the high school halls. I told him I was going to out him. It would've been easy enough. All I had to do was out myself. But I never got the chance.

So there it is. The most ridiculous reason to not be able to "move into the light." I'm stuck in this subway until I've gotten the vengeance my dead self so desperately needs. And maybe I'll never get it. Because Relic doesn't come down here anymore. No one does. Not since I died there on the platform. But Relic's the one who matters. He hid the blood-stained bat somewhere really clever. And Kurt Cobain is even deader than I am.

So here I sit. In the not-so dark-and-stormy night. (Or maybe day.) Waiting. With nowhere to go.


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