Alexandria was the friend every girl wanted to have around: a plain Jane without ideas above her station. Next to this withered flower, Lucy was resplendent. There was a pattern to life; I , leader, and, you, follower. Why on Earth did she have to spoil it by becoming popular?
“He wasn’t yours,” said Lucy.
“You bitch!” said the dead Alexandria.
It was difficult to argue with the denizens of the spirit world, especially, when they were suspending you twenty feet above a freezing cold lake.
“You stole Brad,” said Lucy. She figured it was better to come out with it.
Alexandria’s eyelids flapped in the wind, like the sails of a ghost ship. Bones stuck out from the canvas of her skin, and her hair was mottled with mould.
“I did not,” said the ghost, formerly known as Alexandria. “He chose me.”
“You stole one of my dresses, you gave him our friendship bracelet, and you’re were seen kissing him outside the school. You’re a slut.”
The wind shook Lucy about like a ragdoll sending her limbs in all directions.
“I am not a slut,” said the ghost. “And I did not deserve to die.”
Lightning roared past Lucy’s left trainered foot, and the rain whipped her face. Below her lay the cold waters of the lake. Neither the air nor the ground offered much comfort.
“Just do what you have to do,” said Lucy. “I know what I did was right.”
When she began to drop, Lucy regretted those words, which she were sure would be her last testament.