Dead Girls Aren't Supposed To Talk Back (An Original Story)

My name is Evangeline Woode, and I was of sound body and mind. That is until my dead best friend came back and now we talk every night. She's the voice in my ear telling me what I've done and what I'm doing wrong. I'm going insane, right? Dead girls aren't supposed to talk to you anymore once they've bit the dust, right? I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. Who am I trying to kid? I AM crazy.

This is my journal, read if you wish.

Chapter 2

Still June

June 16th

I remember the day when Venia died. It was the worst day of my life. When she died, I felt like a part of me died too. I don't blame her, she assumed that Zach was sober, but it turns out that Zach is an excellent actor and was drunk all along. It's Zach, Venia's boyfriend of nearly a year, that I blame. That drunkard and pathetic excuse for a man is who I blame for the death of my best friend

It was Zach that should have died. Honestly, I would rather have it to where no one died, but you can never get what you want. Zach felt horrible now, as he should. He's tried apologizing to me countless times; I just walk past him, numb and periodically deaf to all sounds except that of my heart pounding in my head.

And the quiet whisper of Venia's disembodied voice in my ear, attempting to talk to him.
"Don't you feel bad, Zach? Does it hurt yet? Does the pain refuse to cease? Because mine did, thanks to you. Thanks for drinking that night. Thank you for killing me instead of yourself."

I didn't want to listen. I still don't want to listen. I hate all of this. I had having my dead best friend talking to me, though I should be grateful that I still get to see her. But not at the cost of my sanity. I can barely sleep in my warm bed without feeling cold chills next to me, or her cold breath skimming the skin on my neck.

I have headaches thanks to her, and I haven't had a good night's rest in nearly two months. My head pounds like that of a heart beat, like someone hammering a nail into my skull. I wasn't able to handle the dead. Honestly, I don't think anyone was meant to handle the dead.

"Good night, Vange, I'll see you in the morning," Venia whispers to me every night, and I feel a stab of cold on my forehead, telling me she had kissed me.

Can't she go away? I hope to God she doesn't read this, because I get the feeling she's behind me right now. . . .

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