Dead Girl


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Start a Wiki. Contents [ show ]. Categories :. Energy Projection. Fighting Skills. Abbott tempts us to read her tale as a study in what happens when female revenge overflows its bounds, when female rage rises up like a ghost out of the earth. Did someone hurt you? The novel inverts tropes of female victimhood with campy gusto. In high school, Kit rejects Ophelia, the drowned maiden with flowers in her hair, as a role model. Too inert, she decides.

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Hamlet is a better fit. A toxin slipped into prepared food, a contamination not only of the meal but of the romance of domestic care, serves as a murder weapon. So does glass cracked under pressure, something delicate and shining made lethal by intense stress. This dynamic is at play within Diane herself, who embodies feminine fragility and power at once. Their livelihoods had been taken away—first by the Depression, then by the war, and then by the women who replaced them while they were off fighting. The femme fatale, like the Dead Girl, traditionally functioned as a cipher, a scrim for misogynist fantasies.

Severin about P. I drank far too much in those days—a true teenage alcoholic. One beer to me was like a glass of milk to most people. I can close my eyes and remember this moment, outside the old dorms holding my kitten. You took this picture. The car seemed full: A hanging basket a fern?

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The road from Columbia to Lugoff, a major interstate highway, was busy. Laughing, talking, listening to music, we passed by the Alpine Road exit. You were waitressing, working for tips. One of the managers at the restaurant said he was going to open his own place, that he wanted to bring you on as the head waitress, pay you a better hourly wage.

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Money or not, our near-future life together seemed settled. We were happy. We had the rest of our lives to worry about money. I put on my blinker to pass another car. Jack said something.

Maybe I glanced back him; maybe I answered. That name is what people from childhood and high school called me, or still call me to this day. And then? A sound like HUH —your death rattle. And it was as though I opened my eyes from a dream, but into a nightmare. The shattered dashboard was my first perception. Something terrible had happened. I heard a sound from behind. Jack, bloodied and twisted into the wreckage, whimpering in pain. I glanced at you. Your face was pale. The engine block, steaming, was in your lap.

The smell of gas and oil. I looked back. Jack, twisted in the metal, his eyes open, his face a bloody mask. Are you all right? It was the most absurd question ever asked in the history of language. There, my cat, lying on her back, alive. I pulled metal away from her, held her to me. She growled.

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I was screaming, now, at the cruel realization of what had happened. I looked to them. What happened? The clearest image I have is of an old woman coming up, looking inside.

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I looked at her, made eye contact. She walked away. She was just a gawker, gazing in on the bloody tragedy. I begged again. Get us out of here. I meant all of us—you, Jack, Alvy. I never saw him again. Later, someone told me that they had lain him by the side of the road. He had died, my new little kitten.

We had saved him from the shelter, only to die anyway. I did. That was when I began crying, screaming some more. My vision blurred; I thought I was dying, too. I was glad. But it turned out to be only blood, my own, running down into my eyes from a gash across my forehead.

My seat was the only part of the vehicle not crushed, misshapen. At last they pulled off the door. I was helpless. I had to do what they said.

I waited, there in the seat, the ruined car all around me, Jack moaning and begging, my cat gone and you dead beside me. The Guardian of Forever from Star Trek. If I could get there, I would wait until May 9, came around, I would jump in, and we would never have gotten in the car that day.

The minutes unfolded. I was aware, awake, alive. I kept turning to look at you, until I made myself stop. Your face, so pale, your lips turning purple. Crushed by an engine block, you nonetheless seemed at peace, those same lips slightly parted, your eyes droopy but open.

You died instantly, they said. Later, when my mother came into the emergency room, I said, Oh, she was still alive for a few seconds, I think. The EMTs and police arrived.

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