Rosie

Hello, my name is Rosie. I'm 15 years old. Well, I was at least. I'm dead. Died about two and a half months ago. My house burst into flames and no one can figure out how or why.

I was the first one affected by the fire, which started in my bedroom. I was burned alive. Some say that the way I went is the worst way one could possibly go. I've got to admit it was, probably. The fire touched my toes first, burning them slowly from tips to roots, then crept up my legs until I was barely hanging in there. The newspaper here says the coroner suspects I was officially dead when the fire reached the center of my ribcage. I don't know if she's correct, but if she is, I'm proud that I lasted that long.

I can't describe the amount of excruciating pain that raced through my veins while I was being scalded, but I can tell you that it was worse than being trampled by a stampede of elephants weighing a ton each. The pain was worse than being shot 16 times in the chest. Worse than being plowed over by four 8 ton semis. The pain was... Well, there's really no word to describe it; and it's not like I can create my own word to tell you how it felt, believe me, if I could I would. It's just simply that there are no definitions possible to do the feeling justice. There are no words that can properly justify the hurt it caused me. I guess I could say it was unexplainable. There you go, there's your word; unexplainable.

Not a day goes by in which I do not worry about my family. My mom was pronounced dead a couple weeks ago after a long 2 month fight against life-threatening burns covering her body, which eventually caused her body to deteriorate until she was too weak to talk, and eventually breathe. Part of me is glad I didn't live long enough to watch her suffer and battle through all of that, but my other half wished I could have been there to hold my little brother Timothy's hand as the doctor reluctantly broke the bad news to him and my dad.

I wish I could have been there to comfort him, and remind him of how much she loved him. I wish I could have spoken at her funeral and gotten one last peek at my mother's beautiful facial features before she was buried six feet underground. I wish I could have wept with Dad and stroked Timothy's jet black hair while ordering mom's favorite flower, Snowdrops, for her service.

I would have made sure they played her favorite song, "Always" by Bon Jovi. As it played I wish I could have recounted all the fun times we had together while listening to that song. The lip sync battles, dancing and laughing that happened each time it played.

All I can think about now are the would'ves, could'ves, should'ves and the "I wish"es. There are so many things I took for granted during my short lifetime, such as the simple beauty of nature, the changing leaves, dainty flower petals. I miss the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, and the way it felt on the bottom of my feet as I practiced my gymnastics routines out in the summer haze.

I long to hear the prim and satisfying sound of high heels clacking on a wooden floor. There are so many sounds and sights that I miss. If only I could find a way to go back there.

Life is a blessing. Don't waste it. Don't be stupid. Make good choices, be creative, and travel, travel, travel. Do what makes your heart happy, not what others tell you should; because if you set your mind to following every rule or listening to everything anyone says, you'll find that you wasted your entire life simply because you did not live it.

I've been looking for my mother ever since she arrived here. I've come across at least 15 women who, from a distance, could be easily mistaken for her, but when I call out,
"Mom,"
they just disappear. I'm beginning to think they are just visions, hallucinations of what I want to be real. I dream about her every night, and each night I get closer and closer to her before I wake up. Last night I got so close that I swear my hand grazed the sleeve of her translucent blue nightgown. I must be getting close. She must be near, and she may know a way back there.