Lotuslands All Die (A Collection)

Be the Person You Needed When You Were Younger (Short Story)

(A/N: This was a short story I had to make in my creative writing class. In the process of writing this, I had to decorate a skull that fit in with my main character. If you're on a computer it's located to the side of the story. If on mobile, it is positioned above. I feel it just adds depth to the character.)

What they don't tell you about dying is that there's a third choice, or rather, a third option to your fate that doesn't include burning in hell or living in ecstasy in heaven. People were right about some things when you died: there are two gods--one good, one evil--and the good was the one that judged you when you died. You had three options: be tortured in hell like the sinner you are, praise the gods in heaven for all eternity like the gods be damned saint you are, or you could be like me: a lost soul. According to the rules, I am not good or evil--I am a divergent; lost; barrier-breaker.

I remember the benevolent god's name: Benignus. He was the one who sent me on this mission back to Earth. He was the one who concluded I did not fit in their binary (as if I don't fit in them on Earth anyways), and casted me back to this desolate, godforsaken rock. The malevolent god's name was Malignus; he was the one who lived and sulked in hell.

With this second chance bestowed upon me, I had a choice. I will prove I am worthy of eternal tranquility or eternal punishment. The choice is up to me. And I had already chosen long before I even dreamed of this day. I was going to avenge myself, and the blood I was going to get on my hands would have no effect on me. I swear this upon my grave.

When I gained consciousness, the moon was out, and I was not underground as I presumed I would be. No--I had an able body and was sleeping on the ground next to my grave. Beside me were three objects: a sledgehammer, $200 in cash, and black, permanent paint, just as I was promised by the god Benignus. My grave was not underground with a classic tombstone; no, it was above ground in one of those weird marble walls that carried bodies inside. This was good considering I didn't want to do much heavy lifting, and that's because I wanted to see my dead body. I mean, come on, who doesn't?

My first mission: break into my grave. Avenging myself would come in three steps, and this was step number one. See, I was smart in making my deal, and had the benevolent god promise me three items to aid me in my avengement. The first I was to use was the sledgehammer; it would make breaking into my grave easy. I used it violently, crashing it in the marble. I thankfully waked no souls in the loud process, and successfully achieved breaking in my grave.

I yanked my body out: it was cold--freezing cold. It was limper than I had expected, and I lost control of it, and it landed on top of me. "Gross!" I yelled, pushing it off of me...pushing me off of me. I examined it, spying the red, bodycon dress they had put on me and buried me in. Disgusting...I would have to get different clothes for myself later.

I spy the wounds from the hate crime. The barbed wire still left cuts on my right shoulder, and you couldn't tell from the dress, but they cascaded down my chest and to my stomach. My legs were worse off, still purple and bruised from being cut off from circulation. My neck had makeup on it, hiding the slash marks from their pocketknives. I noticed they had cleaned the urine off my body, as that was what those pathetic excuses for human beings had done that to me: pissed on their fellow brother's body. Brother...what a word! It is one I wish people would use on me more often, and not that other revolting word...sister.

Looking at my body from a third-person point of view was awkward, especially when you're like me, possessing a disease known as body dysphoria. All of my body was beautiful, feminine, and curvy. Many girls have told me they would die for my type of body. Well, I would die for anything other than it. I wanted to not be curvy; I wanted to be seen as masculine, tall, and handsome--anything but what my biological body offered. I was mixed in color: my mother a black woman and my father a white man. My hair was short: a pixie cut. They wouldn't allow anything more masculine on me (at least my father wouldn't), and would tell me I would look hideous with that haircut. My eyes are a deep chocolate brown, but I do not wish to open my eyelids to see them again: dead and lifeless, staring off into a void. Everything was in place, except the way my body was presented.