Sort of Dead

1 - Story of My Stupid, Cursed Life

DISCLAIMER: The name, characters and events in this book are entirely the author's imagination. Resemblance to any person, alive or dead, is purely coincidental and unintended on the author's part.

Furthermore, this story does not intend to hurt any religious, social or political belief.

Text Copyright © RaghavBhatia7

All rights reserved. The moral rights of the author have been asserted. This story is published subject to the condition that it must not be reproduced or transmitted in whole or in part, in any manner, without written consent of the copyright holder, and any infringement of this is the violation of the copyright law.

Have fun!
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First things first: this is the story of how I die. Over and over again.

Just thought I should get that off the platter, in case you blame me later or something. My Mum always told me - never cheat your audience. Whenever she would tell me a bedtime recitation, she'd always begin with a line or two which essentially let me decide what kind of a yarn it was going to be.

I am currently sitting in a private jet with three other live people (four, if you include the pilot), a hound, a spirit, and a corpse.

So. Yeah.

I have to somehow make you catch up how it got to this.

But don't get confounded just yet. I'll explain everything best as I can. So here goes nothing.

Just give me a second. Where do I begin?

I guess I should tell you my name first, otherwise if you want to spread my tale you'll never be able to . . . but wait. No. Sorry, I can't tell you my real name.

What should you call me, then? Uhm, let's see. "M" is a letter I'm pretty fond of, so . . . Mandy . . . Marry . . . Mar . . . Marra. That's cool. Right. You can call me Marra.

I know, I know. 

But Marra, you're a boy; why would you chose such a feminine name?

Because I'm big on gender equality, I am. Plus, I really like the name, so it doesn't matter what you think. Ha-ha, in your face! 

Perfect.

I don't want to get cocky, I'm just an unsightly little boy. You heard it right. I'm so ugly, in fact, that if show up knocking on your threshold, you'd shut the door on my face.

Imagine a circle that a kid with a wobbly hand has drawn. Or rather, a sphere. That's my face.  Put a crooked fish-hook on it, right at the centre. That's my nose. Two mismatched buttons on either end of the top. Eyes, eyes. Put two thin, pursed lines by the bottom for lips, and two protruding buck-teeth.

Yeah. I'm that ugly.

Now, as for the dying part - well, that's a whole lot more complicated. I don't want to keep you in the dark, really. The sole point of me telling this to you is because I want my story to be told, so I'm going to be totally honest with you, alright. Totally.

Even if that means you shall think of me as a complete jerk.

Do vote and comment, dead readers!

Did I just say "dead"? I meant "dear".

Not dead, no. Definitely not dead.

Definitely.