Sneaking into her room wasn’t any challenge; she’s snuck out and in more times than she cares to remember. But somehow, it’s more surreal now, knowing she’s dead.

Nothing’s changed -- her clothes still lay scattered on the floor, the sheets are undone and pushed to one side of the bed, the stacks of books in front of her overflowing bookcase were still untouched. Only Jaslene’s changed.

It’s well past 3AM, so Jaslene changes into her pajamas, taking care not to look at the wounds on her chest, and goes to bed. When the morning comes, she hopes to wake and find that all of this is a dream.

                                            -

“Jaslene?” There’s knocking at the door, accompanying her mother’s voice. “Jaslene are you awake?”

She groans and rolls onto her side. “Yes Inay, I’m up.”

The knocking stops. “When did you get home last night?”

“I don’t know. Late?”

Her mother makes a disapproving noise outside the door. “Come home sooner next time.”

“Yeah, got it.”

At last, her mother leaves. Jaslene sighs and grabs her phone from her bedside table, where she forgot it yesterday. The day she died. She shoots up in bed and frantically pats her chest, dread pulling her heart down when her shirt catches a little and sticks to her skin.

Jaslene stumbles out of bed, kicking away the sheets, and throws open her closet door. Looking into the full length mirror, she pulls up her shirt.

Seven. Seven red stab wounds dotting her flesh. One right above her heart, just below her breasts. Some closer to her collarbone. Two on her ribs. None of them bleed, but dead people don’t need to bleed, right?

Jaslene stares and stares and stares, static ringing in her ears where she should have heard her heartbeat. Her legs give out under her, but she can’t feel the floor beneath her when she falls onto her knees.

She didn’t want it to be real. Who would? She thought it was a dream, just one of the bad dreams she’s so used to ignoring, but this is real. This is real.

A sob works its way out of her mouth. Without thinking, Jaslene slaps a hand over her mouth and drops her shirt, letting it hide the wounds once more. More sobs force their way up her throat, but she pushes them down, feeling everything get lodged in her chest where the reality of the situation threatens to choke her.

It wasn’t real last night. It hadn’t sunk in, had just seemed like something that would go away.

But this wasn’t going away.

Nothing could reverse death.

Jaslene blinks the tears out of her eyes and lowers her hands to her lap. She takes deep, heaving breaths and thinks: No one can know.

It takes seven deep breaths to begin to calm down enough to pretend that she’s fine. It takes twenty more for her to work up the courage to open the door and face her family. The floor is cool beneath her feet, and the lights a little too bright compared to the dark of the early morning. When she peeks into the kitchen, her mother is the only one there, alternating between cutting carrots and green onions to stirring the karne norte in the frying pan. As Jaslene watches, her mother adds in the vegetables and turns up the heat, then adds rice.

Normally, the smell would have her trying to sneak some of the rice out of the pan, but she can’t really smell anything. She doesn’t feel hungry either.

The dead don’t need to eat, Jaslene thinks, feeling her heart sink.

She turns away from her mother and collapses into the closest chair in the dining room. She puts a hand on her chest again, pushes against the wounds and feels the flesh give away beneath her palm.

Her throat tightens up and Jaslene goes back to taking deep, steady breaths in a desperate attempt to keep calm and make it through breakfast as she normally would. She pushes a hand through her bed-head, feeling her fingers catch on some knots, and carefully tugs them free. One of the perks of having a pixie cut: doesn’t take much to take care of it. Jaslene could leave without touching her hair and still look fine. Which is good, since she needs to focus on acting alive.

It starts with eating a full meal first but her stomach is so full of knots she isn’t sure she can force anything down.

A plate is set down in front of her suddenly, and when Jaslene looks up, her mother’s looking at her with a worried frown.

“Are you feeling sick?” she asks, brushing Jaslene’s bangs away to press the back of her hand to her forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.”

Jaslene shakes her head, dislodging her mother’s hand. “I’m fine,” she says, “Just tired.”

“Then don’t stay out so late. You may be graduating high school soon, but you still live under my roof.”

“Where you reign as queen, I know,” Jaslene rolls her eyes, but the familiar banter is comforting to her, even when her mother smacks her shoulder and heads back to the kitchen with a laugh trailing behind her.

She really loves her mother, Jaslene realizes, she really, really does.

That makes everything hurt even more.

Jaslene picks up the spoon her mother left her and begins eating the karne norte, blinking tears out of her eyes. There was barely any flavor, but it was still the best meal she’s ever had.

Her mother keeps humming in the kitchen, making her own breakfast. A few birds chirp outside in the trees in the front yard. No car passes down the road in a sudden rush of noise. Her father is just emerging from his bedroom, dressed for work but still struggling to keep his eyes open. Her little sister hasn’t woken up yet.

It’s a quiet morning, just as normal as any other she’s lived through.

It’s so perfect though.

‘How long do I have?’ Jaslene thinks, ‘How long to I have to enjoy this?’

“Morning peapod,” her dad grins as he ruffles her hair. Jaslene ducks away with an exaggerated huff of annoyance.

“Just cause I’m prettier than you are doesn’t mean you get to mess up my hair.”

He laughs as he pours a cup of coffee for himself and presses a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “How can I ever stand a chance then?” he asks, “I have to even the playing field sometime.”

“You should be more worried for Rosamie then, she’s even cuter than me.”

“Drat,” he says, snapping his fingers, “You’re right.”

“Enough joking around, you two,” her mother cuts in, sounding amused, “Shouldn’t you get ready for school, Jas?”

Jaslene pushes herself up and grabs the empty plate to hand to her mom. “Right, I’ll go do that then.”

“Don’t let school kill you!” her dad calls as she walks away. Jaslene flinches, then quickly composes herself again.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she yells back.

School. She forgot about school. Did she finish her homework? Did she even have homework? Jaslene grabs her backpack from where she threw it on the floor on Friday and hopes that she has everything she needs in it. She pulls a shirt and jeans out of her closet, then, after a moment of thought, sneaks into the bathroom to grab a roll of sports tape.

This time, when Jaslene looks at the wounds in the mirror, she keeps herself from panicking. Instead, she focuses on rolling the tape over the wounds until she couldn’t see them anymore. The tape stuck against her flesh, uncomfortable enough to send a shudder up her spine, was just a little tight around the ribs, and pulls on her skin when she gets dressed, but it did its job.

Grabbing her backpack and pulling the straps over her shoulder, Jaslene looks into the mirror one last time. Staring back at her is a normal girl who, despite the dark circle stamped beneath her eyes, looks very much alive. She takes a moment to commit the image to memory. Nods without really meaning too. Squares her shoulders and steps out of her room.

Jaslene is dead; school is nothing compared to that.

She can do this.

She has to do this.