A Day in the Life of a Teenage Dead Girl

I sit on the bench at the tiny train station near my old flat. The first streaks of dawn glimmer on the tracks, glowing golden in the branches of trees. The 6:45 train is seven minutes late. I used to take it every morning, anywhere from five to fifteen minutes late. It was early once, and only once, and I missed it.

I hear a rumbling down the track and turn my head. The train, now eleven minutes late, comes thundering down its path. I stand as if to catch it, one last time, but it does not stop. It rarely stops here, even though I am here, faithfully, day and night. There is no need for the train to stop here, because I don’t live here anymore. I don’t live anywhere.

The passengers’ faces blur as the train whizzes by, but I imagine them staring ever more intently at their phones, adjusting their airpods and avoiding the glass. Or maybe they all turn to stare at the platform where the dead girl used to get on.

It was a Saturday night when I died. My boyfriend and I, unused to drinking heavily, had both overindulged. We argued over a boy who had slipped into my inbox, sending me selfies and compliments. I insisted that I never replied, and screamed about the girl in his phone. I waved my phone in front of my boyfriend’s face, telling him I had already blocked the would-be interloper. He reached to grab my phone and I snatched it out of his reach, teetering precariously on the heels my mum had warned me were too high. I shoved him. He shoved me back and I tumbled, my body contorting into an unnatural heap at the bottom of the stairs.

The day of my funeral, I sat here at watched the trains roll by. People imagine their own funerals, what their friends and family will say, how they’ll be remembered. I felt sick at the thought of my mum burying her only child. As soon as my mum started making the calls and searching my closet for a dress, I knew it was time to move on.

I stood by her when the police came around to notify her of my death. I thought maybe she would feel my presence and draw comfort from it. Her wail was unearthly, an animal keening as though she were the one being killed. And my mum got absolutely no peace from me lingering near her. All I managed to do was bring an unnatural chill to the air, causing her to pull her dressing gown tighter around her, and turning countless steaming cups of tea cold and grey.

Speaking as the victim, I saw my death as a meaningless accident. When the police got hold of our phones, they found a case. Or drew one up, anyway. Bitter arguments, secret conversations. Truthfully, we were two kids who had grown apart but refused to let go. I can see that now, in hindsight. But the first boy I loved will be the only one, and he grow up in prison. I will never grow up at all.

Mum's flat was too painful for me to linger in, so for the first few months, I haunted my friends. They were joined at the hip, always together, and frequently round at my mum's. They scrolled through countless photos we took together and shared their favorite memories of me with my mother. They made her smile when I thought she may never do so again. But as the year went on, the girls went into therapy and saw less of each other. The daily good morning snapchat messages tapered off, as did the visits with my mum.

I didn’t know whether to be heartbroken or livid. I didn’t want the people I loved to be in pain. But moving on actually meant moving on without me. Sadie went out last night, for the first time since our last party together. I stood next to her as she sat at her vanity table curling her lashes. I told her she was beautiful, that she’d have a great time, that she deserved it. And it was all true. But when she got to the party and linked arms with another girl and laughed at an inside joke I didn’t understand, I wanted to scream. That should be me.

When I gave up on my friends, I wandered the streets. I grew up here, as much as I can say I grew up at all. My plan was to get my own flat and go to university here. Sadie had dreams of studying abroad, but not me. This was home. I float through crowds of strangers and watch as they wrap their coats tighter around their bodies when I pass. I lurk in the doorway of shops I couldn’t afford. I sit alone at my favorite café, wishing I could savor the taste of a cappuccino one last time. At night, young people queued for clubs I would never be old enough to visit, and in the city center the bell tolls at the church I didn’t believe in.

Now, I haunt this station. I watched as the first train whizzes past the breaking dawn, till the last one chugs below the blue-black sky. The hours tick by in the distance, snow glistens on the tracks and piles on my bench. Rain beats the concrete platform, washing away blown leaves and rubbish. The sun rises and sets. Autumn rolls into winter on an icy wind, but I am still here. The girl who was killed at a party, seventeen for the rest of time.

Another day has passed. A bone white moon hangs in the starless sky. Occasionally a straggly cloud drifts in front of it, then the light pools on the platform again. I hear footsteps and giggles coming from the stairwell. Turning to look, I see three girls, eighteen, twenty maybe, staggering on bare feet, their heels swinging from their hands.

“What time is the train?” One girl asks.

“Midnight, but it’s always late.”

The three huddle on the bench next to mine, laughing raucously at their attempt to take a photo of the moon. A light beams down the tracks, but the girls don’t seem to notice. I study them and confirm they haven’t noticed at all. I wave my arms and shout at them that they’re going to miss their train, but I have been dead long enough to know they can’t hear me, and it suddenly occurs to me that I cannot hear this train.

I move toward the edge of the platform as this silent train moves slowly closer to my stop. In life, this moment would have stopped my heart. In death, I am curious. The train inches further and further along the tracks, coming to a stop directly in front of me. Only one door opens, and light pours out of it and floods the platform. I take one last look at the girls and offer them a wave as I step on, though they sit in complete darkness, oblivious to my parting.

Inside the train is clean and bright. For the first time since my passing, I feel warmth. None of the seats are taken. I am the only passenger. As was my ritual in life, I take a seat by a window. The train comes to life again, gliding across the familiar railway. I see the houses with their postage stamp yards, the t

op of the clocktower, my old primary school. I see headlights weaving through town towards the motorway, I see the moon’s glistening reflection over the lake. I wonder if this train will take me to the seaside. I think of my mum and how much I love her, I think of my friends and the memories we made together. I think of my boyfriend and the rest of his life. For the first time in the year since I died, I feel an overwhelming peace. So I watch as the world flies by the train window, somehow knowing it will be for the last time.