Rising From The Grave As A Queen

I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.

It was Clayton.

The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister’s engagement party.

"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.

Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.

"Ivy? You're... we buried you."

They hadn't buried me.

They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.