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Dead Girl Monologue

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A shoebox-sized package is propped against the front door at an angle. Our front door has a tiny slot to shove mail through, but anything thicker than a bar of soap gets left outside. A hurried scribble on the wrapping addresses the package to Clay Jensen, so I pick it up and head inside. I take the package into the kitchen and set it on the counter. I slide open the junk drawer and pull out a pair of scissors. Then I run a scissor blade around the package and lift off its top. Inside the shoebox is a rolled-up tube of bubble-wrap. I unroll that and discover seven loose audiotapes. Each tape has a dark blue number painted in the upper right-hand corner, possibly with nail polish. Each side has its own number. One and two on the first tape, …show more content…

More specifically, why my life ended. And if you’re listening to these tapes, you’re one of the reasons why.
What? No!
I’m not saying which tape brings you into the story. But fear not, if you received this lovely little box, your name will pop up…I promise. Now, why would a dead girl lie?
Hey! That sounds like a joke. Why would a dead girl lie? Answer: Because she can’t stand up.
Is this some kind of twisted suicide note?
Go ahead. Laugh.
Oh well. I thought it was funny.
Before Hannah died, she recorded a bunch of tapes. Why?
The rules are pretty simple. There are only two. Rule number one: You listen. Number two: You pass it on. Hopefully, neither one will be easy for you.
“What’s that you’re playing?”
“Mom!”
I scramble for the stereo, hitting several buttons all at once. “Mom, you scared me,” I say. “It’s nothing. A school project.”
My go-to answer for anything. Staying out late? School project. Need extra money? School project.
And now, the tapes of a girl. A girl who, two weeks ago, swallowed a handful of pills.
School project.
“Can I listen?” she asks.
“It’s not mine,” I say I scrape the toe of my shoe against the concrete floor. “I’m helping a friend. It’s …show more content…

In two strides, if I need to, I can reach the handle and flip it over.
I hardly knew Hannah Baker. I mean, I wanted to. I wanted to know her more than I had the chance.
Over the summer, we worked together at the movie theater. And not long ago, at a party, we made out.
But we never had the chance to get closer. And not once did I take her for granted. Not once.
These tapes shouldn’t be here. Not with me. It has to be a mistake.
Or a terrible joke.
I pull the trash can across the floor. Although I checked it once already, I check the wrapping again. A return address has got to be here somewhere. Maybe I’m just overlooking it.
Hannah Baker’s suicide tapes are getting passed around. Someone made a copy and sent them to me as a joke. Tomorrow at school, someone will laugh when they see me, or they’ll smirk and look away. And then I’ll know.
And then? What will I do then?
I don’t know.
I almost forgot. If you’re on my list, you should’ve received a map.
I let the wrapping fall back in the trash.
I’m on the list.
A few weeks ago, just days before Hannah took the pills, someone slipped an envelope through the vent of my locker. The outside of the envelope said:SAVE THIS—YOU’LL NEED IT in red felt-tip

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