The Life of a Dead Girl

THE LIFE OF A DEAD GIRL

Malia was a girl of outstanding repute. She was intelligent, soft spoken, and diligent. There was no good deed she left undone. But that all changed upon her death. Malia was corrupted by the temptations of the flesh when she died and became a card caring member of the undead. After that it all went to hell. Well not yet but that’s were she’s headed. The thrill of taking life to fuel your own was one she could not resist.

The anger and resentment built up inside her until she was ready to explode and it felt damn good. There was no feeling that could rival that of total friend from conscience. She was completely devoid of guilt from what action she felt like taking. She played to her every whim no matter how evil or dastardly. There is a freedom in the lifestyle of a sociopath. Malia’s death was the event that broke her. It was the event that pushed her delicate psyche over the edge. Now all that was left inside was a dark empty pit. The only things that concerned her were her blood lust and desire to feel good and killing tickled her. It wasn’t the pain or suffering of another that thrilled her. It was the sheer rush of power that flooded through you when you controlled someone else’s life or death. It was like she touched a piece of a higher realm when she stared into the eyes of a dying man. The feel yourself drain the life out of another human being was like no other drug on earth. Malia would know, during the course of her new lifestyle she sample drugs like candy. When you’re dead you don’t worry about the damage things might do to you so you pop hands full of designer drugs with street drugs looking for that perfect high. Living carefree is dangerous to all those around you. Unfortunately the increased metabolism of the undead didn’t alloy Malia to stay high for to long. Despite her gross overdose and keeping up the delusional state became too much of a chore. Effortlessly Malia switched from drugging out, to mass murderer and never intended to go back. The breakdown of ones morals can be a very traumatic. So you have to excuse her if she’s a bit crazy. There is no rest for the wicked. Without rest the brain tends to fray around the edges. But Malia didn’t mind her particular damage. She had accepted her life of indulgence and crime without remorse. You can’t feel bad about hurting others if you don’t care about them or even yourself. All Malia worried herself about was slaking the hunger in her soul.

Rising to another night she planed to fill with carnage, Malia was filled with an odd feeling of displacement. She felt disconnected to the world around her. Any other day she would ignore it and continue with the night’s hunt but tonight it was a sharp pain in the pit of her stomach. She had to get rid of it. Nothing would disturb her favorite pastime, draining the life from struggling mortals. Malia dug herself out of the grave she called home, as she had every night of her unlife. The earth felt cool and moist under her chipped and cracked nails. She clawed mercilessly through earth and slimy creature alike. Even the smell of that minuscule amount of blood their tiny bodies let lose, was enough to excite the hunter in her. She ripped faster and faster at the earth until finally the cool night air hit the pale grey skin of her face and hands. Malia gripped hold of small patches of grass and hauled her tired body out of the earth. She shakes the dirt and earthworm bits from her body and sniffs the air for prey. Being in an isolated graveyard it was hard to smell living tissue but sometimes you could catch a late night mourner or a careless worker. Usually the staff there was pretty careful about walking around at night here. It was part of the job description working in a cemetery where they bury those they suspect of dealing with magic or having “the gift”. Even though some of them get complacent after long periods of no action, or their protection is weakened by some unknown event, it happens often without them being aware of it. When that happens they are fair game to all the bad things they guard against and watch or. Tonight unfortunately there was nothing in the area but some rummaging squirrels and other lower level creatures of the night. That meant a night in town was in order. Hopefully the intensity of the city would sooth the annoying ache inside. But she couldn’t go in her grave cloths. While the fashions of the modern young adult could be quite extreme they still didn’t consider being caked in dirt fashionable. Groundskeepers often left extra uniforms in lockers in the shed but maintenance worker chic wasn’t exactly her style. I guess it was to the dead mans stash. She frequently kept trinkets from her victims in the hope that they would help her fit in later therefore helping to get more victims. Malia snuck away from her grave and secretly made her way out of the cemetery pass the ineffectual wards kept there to keep in a different kind of undead. There was no telling what needed to be used to keep her at bay. She made her way the hiding place under the old Miller Bridge. Feeling frisky Malia chose a short black skirt and blue and black corset coupled with knee high combat boots. The dark black brought out the sickly paleness of her skin and the bruise colors under her eyes. Malia dressed quickly under the light moonlight and then headed in toward the noises of the city. Cross the bridge and down the rough gravel road she traveled, desperately trying to loosen the knot in her stomach. The outskirts of the small Midwestern town was scattered with undersized, neat houses with well kept green yards. Dogs could be heard barking in the distance but as she passed the showed her respect sensing the magic emanating from her, predators always know each other. It was Friday so people where gathered down town at the various bars and clubs. All those half drunk fools would be easy to overcome. Malia blended into the crowd with ease.