Escaping Hell

The Story of My Death

I thought of myself as a good person. I tried to help people as much as I could. I could never be sure if I believed in any sort of deity or entity to carry me to the afterlife or save my soul. I thought that maybe, just maybe, some sort of savior could spare me the fire of hell and damnation itself. I thought, "I can't be that much of a screw-up, right? I mean, I am not necessarily good, but I'm not necessarily bad, either. I'm somewhere in the middle of pure and evil. The middle of the scale, if you will, between Jesus and Satan. Or whatever you believe.

So, you're probably thinking, "Okay, but how did you die?"

Well, reader, that's what I'm about to tell you.

Name? Lydia Gretchen. Nobody called me Lydia, though. Anybody that knew me called me Lucy. It was simpler, and somewhat more anonymous and mysterious, I suppose. I have no recollection of how I obtained that nickname.

Occupation? I didn't really have one. I often spent my nights at the local bar with nobody to accompany me but my own thoughts. I never really was known as a special person, but people knew to keep their distance from me.

Why?

I suppose I was a pretty intimidating character. Chin length, black, curly hair, steel-toed shoes, the darkest brown eyes you'd ever see, and I always wore a jacket made out of rough material. Now, you may ask yourself why I included the detail about my jacket. Well, you see, that's because it's harder to stab through than some old, regular fleece jacket. Why did I need to worry about stabbing? Do you have to ask? I went to a bar every night where dudes who want to prove their masculinity flock every night. Of course I had to worry about getting stabbed.

Ironically, however, I did not die because of some drunken asshole's knife.

A girl doesn't like to stay inside or at a bar for her whole life, now does she? A girl has to go outside every once in a while. Catch up on gossip. Go out to eat. Find some stranger to make mild chatter with. Maybe hook up with somebody.

I died on September 4th, 2013. It was around noon, I think. I was walking around town, and I went to cross the street. My chest started to hurt in the middle of the intersection, and I was hit by a car before I could even finish having my pulmonary embolism. I died on the scene, and the case surrounding my death was closed within a month. I left behind nobody. I left my family when I was fifteen; everyone at the house hated me. Nobody called to report me missing, but my best friend at the time knew what was up. She kept in contact with me, but the last time I had talked to her was three months before my death.

Anyway, back to the present. I spent what felt like an infinite time in hell. I don't know what made any sort of god or demon decide to take me out of the land of fire, but I'm alive. Today is July 8th, 2014. I just got back from being in hell, and I have to make things right with my old friends. Well, old friend.

I won't let myself die again without having told somebody about what the demons told me in hell. They told me everything.