Authors: L. B. Simmons
The Resurrection of Aubrey Miller
Copyright © 2014 by L. B. Simmons
Cover by Mae I Designs (
Edited by Jennifer Roberts-Hall
Interior by Kassi Cooper
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.
“My name is Aubrey Miller, or Raven Miller, depending on what part of my life I’m referencing, and this is my story.
“I’m not going to bore you with every single detail, not yet anyway. All you need to know at this point is that, for many years, my life was a dark, endless abyss of death. It followed me around like I was some sort of knock-off, subpar grim-reaper. The overwhelming guilt of the role I played in each death reigned over my life, and many of those days consisted of me just trying to keep my head above the grief that consumed me.
“But that is neither here nor there. What
relevant for you to understand is that this is my story—my fight to emerge from underneath the shroud of death that I was fearfully hiding behind for so many years. And it happened over the course of four years, my college years.
“Those years, while for most are defined by constant partying and keg stands, with the occasional random hook-up—well, maybe more than occasional for some people—for me were just another pitiful reminder of my lack of social skill and personal grace. In the beginning. By the end, I had acquired life-long friends who helped guide me through some of the darkest parts of my life. In them I found the strength to lie to rest the person who walked onto campus that very first day, the one cloaked in death and darkness, and become the person speaking to you today.
“I am here to finally share my story.
“A story of discovering not only myself, but the meaning of true friendship and unconditional love.
A story of some of the most challenging, yet most beautiful and awe-inspiring years of my life, in hopes that you will take something away from my journey.
“After all, when life gives you lemons, aren’t you supposed to make lemonade or some shit like that?
“Wait. What? I can’t say that?
“Oops. Sorry about that, folks.
“Anyway, back to why we’re here.
“So without further ado, here is the story of my resurrection.”
Glancing over, I see lips moving but hear nothing else so I gently tug the earbuds out of my ears. After pausing the Hole playing on my iPod, I look at my legal guardian as she concentrates on the road in front of her.
Linda breaks her stare from the seemingly endless highway to look in my direction. “I
the blue looks good on you.” Removing her hand from the steering wheel, she reaches across the space separating us to touch the lower layers of the hair barely brushing the top of my arm, and pieces a section between her fingers before lifting it up in front of my eyes. The electric blue tips of my blackened hair bend fiercely toward my face as the breeze from the air conditioning blows against it. The corners of my mouth tilt downward as I take her wrist, removing her hand from my hair, and lean forward to place it back on the steering wheel.
Safety first, Linda.
As I recline back into my seat, she adds, “The cat eyes kind of freak me out, though.”
“Good,” I respond. “That’s what I was going for when I bought the contacts.” I snatch up the layer of the hair she has just released and hold it up again, inspecting the blue. “Anyway, I thought
Blue Goth Punk Emo # B 000
would be a nice choice for today, seeing as though I’ll be meeting all sorts of new people. I wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression,” I say, sarcasm coating the last words spoken.
Linda snickers to herself, her shoulder length blonde hair falling across her shoulders as she dips her head in laughter. She’s so not looking at the road right now.
“Eyes on the road, please.” Releasing my hair, I watch until she lifts her face to focus on the grey pavement. Once satisfied that we’re not going to drift into oncoming traffic, my head finds the back of the seat and soon the sound of the humming tires almost lulls me to sleep. “God,” I moan as I stretch my arms above my head, attempting to release the pressure of my aching back muscles. “How much longer?” Even shifting in my seat does absolutely nothing to alleviate the throbbing.