Silly Girl

SILLY GIRL

by

Brandon Berntson

Death was not a ride at the amusement park…

Or
was
it?

Amanda Dear gained perspective in the afterlife. She never thought death would be this way,
imagined
this way, but her death had
fashion
. Here, she didn’t have to worry about what clothes to wear, hot meals, or meaningless appointments. Amanda Dear was able to shape death into something new. The idea was funny because she didn’t
have
shape. She was just a thought, a memory, an unphysical thing moving through the conscionable universe at the speed of light. Yes, she was dead, but she was able to
think.
She was sitting at the potter’s wheel, molding, sculpting, bringing death together the way
she
wanted, and not somebody else. She was shaping death
into
life. The answers to the mystery were everywhere around her, brighter and more beautiful than she’d ever thought possible.

She’d begin with Manny. He was the reason she was here. She was still angry, of course, any bright-minded girl would be. He’d raped her, left her for dead. Of course, she could only
imagine
Manny. This was death, after all. If his soul weren’t here for her to maim and torture, she’d have to rely on the power of her imagination!

She’d grab his balls between her teeth, sever his manhood, similar to the pain she’d felt before she’d arrived. Make
him
a girl! That would be the perfect redemption, the joke of the year! If death had mercy, such liberties should be allowed. Oh, she could imagine easily! Death had granted power to her imagination, and Amanda Dear considered herself a rather imaginative girl!

Manny had called her every crude name imaginable, but that didn’t bother her. He would get his soon enough.

Death had brought her relationship with Mother to a close as well. Amanda didn’t have to listen to that constant grip and worry anymore. Not that she’d had to before. She’d moved out before she was eighteen (She was twenty-eight when Manny left her for dead), but the memory of Mother was enough, the constant gripe, making Amanda feel unloved and neglected. The memories of her mother were still powerful, though, strong enough to make her feel guilt even here.

But you can forget,
she thought.
Death puts distance between you and the past.

Yes, she
could
forget. She’d begin with Manny’s balls…She’d grab them between her teeth, rip them violently from between his thighs!

“You want to know what popping and oozing is?” she imagined saying, nails puncturing the crotch of his jeans. She’d spit into his slimy face.

Reason to laugh,
she thought
. Oh God, have mercy and give me
one
reason to laugh.

Amanda Dear did not create death by hand. She had to succumb—at times—to the throes of death’s embrace. Death had horrors of its own. Death, in fact, had a little game to play.

She would make herself original again. Here, she’d reclaim the elusive harmony she’d sought in life.

Hellish monsters in the shapes of men had manipulated and destroyed her dignity: old boyfriends, lovers, one-night stands. Somehow—whether she believed it or not—her boyfriends were here now, too. She didn’t know if
all
of them were dead, of course. She supposed it didn’t matter. The hell, the horror—she realized—was having to relive every atrocious second spent with them.

Was it a reminder? Something telling her what kind of girl she was, the mistakes she’d made? Wasn’t Life punishment enough? She had to undergo this shit all over again?

Are you fucking kidding me?

What kind of Creator allowed such a thing?

A bastard Creator,
Amanda thought.
A ruthless, sonofabitching, bastard, chauvinistic Creator with no fucking balls and a penchant for cold beer and football games, the worthless prick.

“You
made
me this,” she shrieked into the afterlife, imagining her tormentors. “You
made
this happen. Prepare to meet your doom.”

As it was, Amanda was a willowy, smoky shape moving through the expanse of stars. She couldn’t feel the air, tell whether it was warm or cold. She couldn’t see her body. Her soul was a lacy ribbon shooting through space like a comet. Death, apparently, had stars and planets.

That’s kind of cool,
she thought.

As she moved through space, Amanda constructed a plan, something final, eternal for her salvation. In death, she’d show no mercy. She’d raise her salutary finger for the universe, for death, even mommy.
Especially
mommy.

“See my finger, mummy,” she’d say.

Mommy had always been brutal, at least verbally. Boyfriends had been physical. Mother had been verbal. It was a miracle she’d made it to twenty-eight. Mommy did not represent ‘goodness.’ Goodness never came with mommy. She’d never found ‘goodness’ with Manny, Jon the Doctor, or Shelby, either. Goodness came with what you loved, Amanda knew. She’d sail into death and
create
beauty, goodness, mold it into shape as if she were sitting at the potter’s wheel.

No more of this constant laboring,
she thought,
these nightmares before my eyes, this thing pummeling my vision with stars and clouds, crags blanketed by snow and thin air. From dust life is made, and back to dust, I’ll take it.

She’d drop everything from above the clouds to the rocky crags below, because in death, she was able to
soar.

Happiness is in the rocks below,
Amanda thought.
Of course, she had to imagine the rocks because this was death, and all she saw were stars and space.
You are something special, Amanda Dear. You are not for their amusement, a meaningless, unemotional toy for them to manipulate and take advantage of. You’re not a punching bag, a crippled dog defeated by its master. They can do you harm no longer!

They’d put her through endless pain and abuse: Manny, Shelby, Jon the Doctor, even Mommy. Amanda
knew
hell. She’d seen it first hand. She and hell were regular pals.

The August heat had been merciless that day in the alley. She remembered dying, too, left for dead—her bleeding, damaged crotch sending bolts of pain throughout her abdomen. Similar to what she’d do to Manny.

Claws dug between her legs, tearing her crotch asunder. Rocks, pebbles, and broken glass clung to her bleeding lips. Her face bled, too, eyes swelled shut. Did Manny think Amanda Dear would
forget?

Manny had been too dramatic anyway. Everything was always a problem for him. She’d paid for it then.

Amanda did everything she could, everything Manny had told her, and it was never enough—one of
those
relationships. The sonofabitch actually had the balls to say he
deserved
more.

Balls?
she thought.
How ironic!

She gave more of herself than necessary. She couldn’t remember why she’d been lying in the alley. She wanted to make amends despite the cost. Something originally brought her and Manny together, hadn’t it, the ride on the merry-go-round, the cotton candy that day? It had been for real then, right? Amanda Dear, even then, had been determined to make this relationship
work!

In death, though, nothing made sense, a rhapsody of past images and flashes as she flew through space, what life had been before, what death was going to be like now…

So far, it wasn’t very noteworthy…

Something nudged her in the ribs…

Quit wasting time in bad memories!
—a voice said.

Amanda Dear tapped her feet impatiently. Well, she imagined feet. She just wanted to keep moving through the clouds and stars of space. She would do everything she could. Death wasn’t a re-enactment of life, the torn, ill-treated events she recalled. This was
Amanda’s
time.
Her
hands would do damage now! Since she hadn’t seen proof of God’s existence, she’d build Heaven from the potter’s wheel.

Only twenty-eight when she died—a bleeding rape victim left for dead in the heat of the city—Amanda was still going through challenges. Something endeavored to break her even here, to punish her further, accept her inevitable defeat. Life, or death, was more challenging now.

Still, the vision of her death assaulted her:

The August heat had suffocated her, burning her cheeks, the back of her neck. She’d been coughing up blood, dirt, and broken glass. Manny had pulled her pants down, exposed for all to see. Nothing honorable in that—even death had stripped her of dignity.

“Is this a joke?” she said in death.

She could hardly remember the rape, a single, chaotic blur.

She’d avenge herself if she could remember who she was. Identity was the key to freedom. All she had to do was remember her name. Yes! She’d pluck Manny’s balls from between his thighs!

Did someone, something laugh as life slipped away? She was
still
lying in the alleyway! What a cruel, insensitive world!

Amanda Dear couldn’t blame them. The same world had shaped and molded her into the woman she was now. She’d probably do the same, she thought.

For the moment, however (still sailing through the dark of space), she forgot about Manny, that he’d raped her at all. Her chance for redemption would come later.

Amanda closed her eyes, trying to forget she’d actually
lived.
This amusement park was more thrilling anyway, if not questionable. Some things were actually on her side here, it seemed.

It’s about time,
Amanda thought, and sailed through the confines of limitless space. Sometimes, death could be
so
predictable.

*

It
had
to be more complete. Death wavered. Sometimes, it thrilled; often, it disappointed. Through the unexplainable—the dark of death—she sailed on, the life she’d lived unfolding before her eyes like a movie screen.

Amanda moved into a deeper darkness of death, one with fewer stars and consuming black.

“Mommy?” she said. “Is that you?”

No reply. An ache developed at her crotch. Apparently, she was still in the alley lying on her stomach and coughing up blood. Someone pointed to her and laughed. She could barely see an ambulance out of one swollen eye. It backed into the alley, police sirens wailing, making her head throb.

Could someone turn that down, please?

An officer told everyone to back away. There was nothing to see.

She’d died on the way to the hospital, she remembered.

But just as quickly, she returned to the afterlife, not reliving her death in the city. Manny stood in front of her. Had he died, too? Why was he here? Amanda didn’t know, but suddenly…

Manny kicked her in the stomach. He’d done that before, the reason she’d been spitting up blood in the alley in the first place. He’d pulverized her then, and he was doing it again now, even though she was dead. Manny, apparently, owned power in death.

Flares of fire shot through Amanda Dear’s abdomen. Blinding light sent her farther into space. Manny, too, made of stars of his own, and Amanda sailed with the momentum of his power.

*

Manny was gone. She slowed through space, and the pain subsided.

Death
would
be something like this,
she thought,
a constant reminder, never making sense.

No wonder she had the thoughts she did. Beauty had always been out of reach, but not now. Beauty was the only thing worth reaching
for.

Another moment in life presented itself, much different than the memories she had of Manny, mommy, and the others.

Amanda Dear was lying on a bed, looking out the window at the stars. The Milky Way stretched across a cloudless sky.

Something about stars,
she thought.
Salvation and death are in the stars.

She didn’t know it then, but she was looking into the afterlife.
Amanda smiled.

The window was open. A cool summer breeze, the scent of lush grass and pine trees came in from the window. She’d just finished grinding to an hour of good sex. Amanda Dear needed a cigarette.