�Mom!� I yelled, jumping out of bed. �Mom! I�m late for school!� When I received no answer, I ran to my parent�s bedroom to discover my mother bent over a newspaper, crying. �Mom?� I asked, slowly approaching her. �What�s wrong?� She ignored me, picking up the newspaper, tear stained and wrinkled. It was today�s edition�The headline read: �Local Teen Murdered in Own Home.� I looked at the picture next to the article. It was a school picture of a happy girl�A girl with blonde hair, green eyes�
I knew why my mother was crying. That girl was me.
�What?� I stammered. �I�m�dead?� I peered over my mother�s shoulder, skimming the article.
�Fifteen year old Valerie Roberts was discovered dead
in her home by her mother, Rita. Both Mr. and Mrs.
Roberts were at work�Cause of death is undetermined,
although police suspect either homicide or suicide.�
Slowly, I stepped back from my mother and ran. Past my bedroom, past my living room, past the policemen investigating my death. I had no idea where I was going; I only knew I needed to leave my house. I ran until I could no longer. I stopped, drawing a painful, sharp breath, nearly collapsing from the searing pain inflaming my lungs. I came to the sudden realization that I had not drawn a breath since I had awoken that morning. My heart had ceased its beating, too.
I looked around, not breathing for fear of pain, and tried to see where I was. Recognizing this neighborhood as the one my school was in, I walked into to ancient brick building, wishing to see my friends.
Walking through the narrow halls, I saw no living beings. However, I saw another spirit. She seemed to not notice me, but I saw and recognized her. She was in a cheerleading uniform, with a 1950�s style hairdo.
�Catherine,� I said to myself. Catherine was a senior, murdered in our school in 1957. Her story was one told by upperclassmen to scare lower classmen. I never thought the story was true�until now.
I entered the auditorium to find the entire high school being told of my death. There was a small makeshift memorial, surrounded by flowers and cards. I refused to go closer to it, because I always thought memorials were cheesy. There were a lot of people crying�Friends, teachers�Even some people I�ve never talked to .
I brushed past my best friend, touching her shoulder gently. She shivered, tears filling my eyes. I hurriedly left the auditorium, passing Catherine one last time before going home.
My mother was in my room now, looking at pictures I had on my desk. Most of them were of me as a child, but there were also some recent ones. I had collected them for my �History of my Life� project for a class in school.
Life�I pondered the word until it lost its meaning. Life felt like an empty, nonexistent idea. For a moment I thought I have been like this for my entire life�Invisible, cold, dead.
My mother stood up, taking one picture with her. It was an old picture of my mom, dad, and me in a field with spots of colorful flowers. She moved to the door, and I approached the desk. I flipped through the remaining pictures, picking up the most recent and staring at it. My mother turned around, and, upon seeing the picture suspended in midair, whispered: �Valerie? Honey, is it you?� Her eyes glistened with tears.
�Mommy,� I whimpered, feeling small and helpless. �Yeah, mom, it�s me,� I answered. She couldn�t hear me.
�Honey�If it is you, tell me.� I wanted to scream at her, let her know I was here�
I could think of nothing other to do than to approach her. I was less than two feet away. Tears were running down her cheeks. I held up the picture, pointing to my face, even though she couldn�t see my transparent finger. My mother cried harder, but she was smiling and laughing.
�Valerie�I miss you, honey. We all do.� I too was crying now, wanting to live again�to be again.
I slowly opened my eyes, looking at my alarm clock. �Why didn�t it go off yet?� I muttered, reading the time. The red numbers blared four digits: 10:13.