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 challengin
g 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.
She was made of stars. She pulsed and tingled with lights of her own. The memory was telling her this.
Yet, this wasn’t Jon the Doctor, Shelby, or Manny. Those bastards never made her feel this way.
Ah! She had it!
“I love you, Wesley,” she said.
Yes. At one time, Wesley had been her guardian, the man of her dreams, her hero on a black steed. Wesley was everything the others were not. Wesley, her knight, her paramour of the cosmos. That non-existent God had sculpted Wesley just for her. Between trauma and torture, he’d procured miracles. Light made him magical. Wesley cured affliction, eased every abhorrent scar.
Back in death, she might’ve thought: Whatever happened to Wesley? Why does he always disappear when I need him most? And he always comes when I least expect it.
Wesley’s huge, thick arms hugged her tight. Amanda breathed him in, looking out the window still into the night sky, her back against his burly, bare chest, bear-like arms encircling her. She felt she was in the arms of a bear—or a lion. More a bear, Amanda thought, because Wesley had thick, black hair. Amanda ran her fingernails across his forearm.
“Flying is for suckers,” Amanda Dear said. “Who needs wings?”
Wesley smiled. She didn’t have to see the smile, of course. Wesley smiled at everything.
“Doesn’t a grilled-cheese sandwich sound good right now?” he said. “Something about a grilled-cheese sandwich. Sounds like the best thing in the world.”
“I didn’t say anything about a grilled-cheese sandwich,” Amanda said. “I asked you about flying.”
She thought about death, even then. Who didn’t? Perhaps she knew it was about flying. In death, you were a bird, and all you did was soar from one terrible landscape to another.
“You said nothing about flying.”
“I did so,” she told him.
“It’s over-rated,” Wesley said. “Doesn’t a grilled-cheese sandwich sound good?”
“What’s with your fascination with grilled-cheese sandwiches?”
“The same fascination I have with thunderclouds. Can you smell thunderclouds?”
“It’s a clear night,” Amanda told him. “Look. There’s nothing but stars out.”
“Thunderclouds are over-rated, also,” he said. “So are stars.”
“But not grilled-cheese sandwiches?”
Wesley smiled. He brushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.
“You never answered me about flying,” she said.
“What did you say?”
“I can’t remember. Who cares? This is better anyway. This is what I’ve been waiting my whole life for.”
“I think you should make me a grilled-cheese sandwich,” he said.
“With thunderclouds?”
“Humans worship birds because—since the dawn of creation—they’ve dreamed about flying. They think birds are heavenly, something along those lines. People want to be super-heroes.”
“There,” she said. “Was that so hard?”
“I love you, too, Amanda Dear,” Wesley said.
*
Amanda soared through space, a delectable moment with Wesley lost in the memory of stars.
In death, she thought about the life she’d lived, and another memory assaulted her now, time spent in an apartment she’d rented in Denver. She’d been working for the Fillmore Company at the time, a company manufacturing fake flowers. She worked in the main office.
Planters and plants covered the floors and shelves of her apartment, but not from Fillmore. Amanda was a fanatic with shrubbery perhaps because Fillmore produced fake flowers, and she wanted the real thing. Amanda wanted plants everywhere! Whenever, and wherever she saw them for sale, she always bought one.
This wasn’t Manny’s time. This was Shelby’s.
They hadn’t had a romantic night in weeks, she’d been thinking. Candles burned on the dining room table, instrumental jazz on the radio. The room was atmospheric, the perfect mood.
If Shelby didn’t think this romantic, he was crazy.
You’d have to be a lunatic not to be swayed by the atmosphere, Amanda thought.
Shelby had gotten a promotion. For a long time now, she’d wanted t
o do something nice for him.
But everything happened too fast. Commotion and screaming came from the bathroom. The jazz disappeared in a whirlwind of chaos. Overhead lights came on, destroying the mood. Shelby cursed and screamed from the bathroom, a lunatic in his own right.
Of course, it was Shelby. Only he administered this kind of force, this brutality. She must have done something to upset him. Why else was he so enraged!
Amanda frowned and looked toward the bathroom.
How petty it was! Shelby was looking for a reason to pulverize her! If he couldn’t find a reason, he’d make one up.
Within minutes, Shelby’s snarling, contorted face—eyes burning with anger—took up her vision. Amanda couldn’t imagine what had set him off. What was he trying to tell her?
Shelby grabbed Amanda Dear, steel fingers digging into her biceps, and threw her against the wall. She crashed into the plaster, her head whipping back against the wall. Pain rang between her ears.
A picture of her younger brother, Michael, shattered to the floor. Plants fell from a shelf, spilled potting soil into her hair. Bright lights filled her head, a coming wave of blackness…
Shelby backhanded her. White lights rocketed through her brain. Amanda spun in a circle, knees turning to liquid, and dropped to the floor.
Shelby had never been nice. Every memory Amanda Dear had of him was violent, more terrible than the last. She should’ve known…the way he’d taken her arm that day when they’d gone to the movies. He was making his presence felt now…
Shelby picked her up and threw her against the wall again. In her ears, the ringing turned to sirens. Blood warmed the side of her face. What was she, another sparring partner, one of his bar-buddies?
This wasn’t the first time, either. He’d done this before, and she—the frightened fool—told herself he’d change. She’d laugh—at least later—when she understood why he’d lost control.
The air went out of Amanda. She was going to throw up…
His hands were steel. They drove into her stomach, lifting her off the floor. Amanda Dear gasped for breath, but it was useless.
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