By Trinity Thompson

A corpse revived. Mere months ago she lay dead, stretched across the barren earth. Her heart in pieces, her hopes depleted. There was no getting better, she had nothing left to do but rot and wallow in the dreariness of her demise. And rot and wallow she did.  

Buried alone; six feet in the ground. Numb as her rotten hands were, she dug herself further into the earth. Six feet became twelve, twelve became twelve more. A surprise to some that the dead can kill themselves once more, twice more, or in her case- a hundred times more. Her dark place of rest became darker by the day. The further she dug, the harder she tried to grasp the hand of her killer. She fell further into the dirt while her killer remained above the earth. While she was digging herself lower and lower, her killer was building a staircase higher and higher toward the light above.

Envious was she- oh how she wanted her killer to suffer in death, just like she. She perhaps wanted that more than she desired the ability to climb a heavenly staircase herself. It was not that she had hatred for her killer, no, on the contrary. She had much love. She knew of her killer’s murderous plan far in advance. In the weeks leading up to her death she begged for mercy, she begged for a chance. But when the gun was put against her chest, she sat still, she did not resist. Resist she could not, no, what a foolish waste of time. Instead, she softly stroked her killer’s hand. She wiped her killer’s tears. She brushed her lips against the lips of her killer. Together they- killer and she- mourned the wonderful life she had lived. And when the trigger was pulled, she died at once. It was peaceful, for she thought her killer would die alongside her.

No. Her killer simply shot their leg. Even in death she felt betrayed. Her killer could not walk, but her killer lived. How romantic would it have been if they- killer and she- died together, hand in hand? It was her fault, her naivety, to expect anything other than the antithesis of romance. Her killer, wonderful, beautiful- but a killer nonetheless. Once her killer’s leg healed, they began stepping up their heavenly staircase- slowly at first- then with great speed. The killer had not the breath, they had not the time to think about the girl they left dead, 100 feet below. 

Envious was the girl, for a corpse never forgets the eyes, those gorgeous, heartstopping eyes of their killer. It took her far too long to realize that her envy got her no further. Her envy only served to darken her already midnight grave. Perhaps call it pettiness, call it pride- but after digging herself to the bottom of the earth- she felt the necessity to dig herself back out. It was not a slow process, how could it be? The self-destruction and hole-digging got her to the bottom of the earth- her death only got her six feet under. It was an ongoing process, but after four months of rotting, she became a corpse revived. She reached the surface, she reached the light. Feeling the light on her skin, she remembered how warm the sun could be, how much air her lungs could breathe. 

Of course, this is not to say she carries no wounds, no bruises of her life that passed. No, she carries the scars of her past and after life. Her breaths are slow- but they are there. They are there. 

When she cranes her neck up she sometimes catches a glimpse of her killer, but she seeks not revenge. She seeks not reconciliation. Revival was enough. 

A corpse revived, a fragile heart, beating once more. Her killer will not kill again, that much she knows. As a corpse revived, she makes her way up a heavenly staircase- her staircase. Slowly, surely. She will thrive.

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Trinity is a high school senior based in California. She enjoys writing, screenwriting, and filmmaking among other activities.