Hi. My name is Lilly. I was born on January 3rd 1996. I've got a little sister called Lizzy. She never listens to me and she wished she did. Last year I died, that makes me dead on the 6th of August 2014, my sister's birthday. I was killed by a lung problem since birth. I had all the things you could imagine that linked to lungs. Asthma, uncontrollable coughing, wheezing and attacks coming from everywhere, surprising me since. And just one day, boom. I was dead. Dropped on the floor like a ball with no air, deflating at a single touch. I was pin-pricked by a needle, a small hole which is deadly. No one knew what had happen. They found me in the girls bathroom. Maybe it was the smoke in there which killed me.
Girls in my school smoked weed to get along with the boys. I had a boyfriend, his name was Freddie. He used to call himself Freddie Mercury because he could rock just like the late Queen singer. My boyfriend was clean. Never doing drugs, never thinking about sex after we kissed and laid on my bed, breathing quietly. Most of the time I thought, did he love me at all? Just the day after I died, he had gone and got a tattoo with a drawing of a Lilly on his arm. That meant that he did care for me and will until he dies.
A few months later he had committed suicide, I had seen him. He stayed in his room, crying, muttering my name under his breath and he hang himself. Why couldn't he just stayed there for a little longer? Wait until he had settled down? Why does it always have to be my fault?
