Dead Girls by Abigail Tarttelin

Author:Abigail Tarttelin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Published: 2019-09-27T23:01:45+00:00

When I get back home, I run straight up to my room and shut the door.

“Thera, is that you?” Dad calls.

“I’m just doing something in my room!” I yell.

“Will you come down here?”

“Just give me two minutes!” In front of the full-length mirror in my room I take my dress off. Then I take my undewear off, and kick my shoes and socks off, and study myself naked. I sorely need boobs, and my tummy pokes out a little, but the rest of me is okay. I have bruises on my legs. I don’t know where any of them come from, but I always have bruises on my legs. My legs look quite thin and muscular—from running around over the fields, probably. I turn to my side. I am pretty slim, but my bum pokes out. I bet if I brushed my hair, that would look better too. The more the dead girls appear to me, the more I think about being a girl, and the more uncertain I am about it. There are some things I really like about being a girl. I like long hair, and I like that my clothes are more colorful. But I don’t like: periods, boobs, or the fact that someone might kill you just because you’re a girl. The only way a girl is different from a boy is how they look naked, and apparently that makes all the difference to perverts. I expect some perverts like little boys, but most prefer girls like the dead girls.

There are other things I don’t like about being a girl. I don’t like that I’m supposed to be pretty and polite and to behave, and that when I think about all these things they just seem like things that would make killing you a lot easier. I don’t like that I have a vagina. I poke at it. I found it the other day. That’s where the boy’s thingy goes in with sex. I saw it on a video, but I had no idea what they were talking about. I realized when I found it. Boys don’t have a vagina and girls don’t have a willy, so when they threaten you with rape, you have nothing to threaten them back with. I don’t like that even though my body is pretty strong now, it’s going to get comparably weaker to all the boys my age when they grow taller than me. I’m scared I won’t be able to fight back. I think about Billie, and imagine that if she were only a foot taller or a bit stronger or if we’d done a boys’ sport like football or martial arts, then she would know how to kick the man so hard he would cry and fall to his knees. I imagine her running out of there and calling to me across the field. Suddenly she is here, in front of me, with the other dead girls.

So far, I have received automatic writing messages from three of them.

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