Free Silly Girl by Brandon Berntson

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