As in Doornail

So I'm training my cat to kill. I scoop her up and hold her like she's a baby until she starts to get upset. Then I say, "Kill. Kill, Scully, kill," before I let her get back to licking herself.

I'm telling you this because I want you to understand I have the potential to be mean, nasty, vicious, petty, and cruel. There is something in me--and every other human being--that delights in seeing others' pain. I'm telling you this because when I'm gone, I don't want you to confuse me with Deadgirl.

You know Deadgirl.

In some stories, she is simply the one who got away. "Cowboy Bebop's" Spike Spiegal yearns for Deadgirl Julia until she returns--only to die again. (Head Babetteer Anna pointed out to me, "She dies because she's dead.") Deadgirl is a devoted wife and mother who uses her last breath to utter some nonsensical magic words in "Signs." Deadgirl sends Mickey Rourke on some stupid revenge quest in "Sin City." Deadgirl's sister, Sickchick, has a complete understanding of the world, yet still finds it in her heart to be loving, generous, and sweet until she expires.

I hate Deadgirl--I hate her, I hate her, I hate her because she's better than the rest of us, the women who are still alive and, therefore, less awesome than our decomposing counterparts. Deadgirl's quirks are signs of her superior character. When (male) narrators search their memories of Deadgirl, they latch onto those soft-focus moments when she was radiant and childlike--like a fucking angel. Deadgirl is one of the guys, yet she still manages to smell like Love's Baby Soft. Deadgirl said that thing that time that really makes sense when you think about it. She doesn't have to be a virgin, but Deadgirl never pity-screws, fakes it, or calls it a "pinky." She only makes sweet love.

She's great, isn't she? Except she's DEAD. As in "doornail," as in "as hell," as in "pushing up daisies, so stop talking about her for, like, three seconds."

And when a character shuffles loose this mortal coil, she no longer has a voice. Her entire experience is negotiated through the memories of people who choose to define her in limited terms. The worst offending Deadgirls pass away long before the events of the story take place, so they have the pleasure (as if their pleasure matters) of becoming a prop, usually the bridge between two or more male characters. If two guys can't get around to kissing each other, then they can share a beer and talk about kissing Deadgirl.

Tell me: What is it about a real, live, breathing, sometimes angry woman that puts off male narrators? (I would say we don't bite, but I'd be lying.) It's difficult enough to populate stories with interesting characters who are lovable but troubled. Deadgirl is the insipid shorthand for a real woman character. She can be virgin, mother, and whore--and her voice doesn't complicate matters at all. (Silence--it's so hot right now.) I can't even write Open Hate Mail to Deadgirl: all she does all day long is decompose in a saintly way.

Now, sometimes Deadgirl can't help that she's dead. I get that. There is hope. Deadgirl can redeem herself by:

*becoming a zombie and eating the brains of those beer-drinking buddies
*possessing her cowed son to the point that he dresses in drag to murder people in the shower
*crawling out of television sets and mangling people's faces with her brain
*unnerving her husband's new wife
*comparing Harry Potter's package to Cedric Diggory's (yowza!)
*only pretending to be dead so she can (a) embezzle funds; (b) start a new life as a transgendered rock star; (c) pick up something from the store
*really, becoming a zombie and eating brains is the way for Deadgirl to go.

There is no redeeming Sickchick.

Hear this: if anyone tells any Deadgirl stories at my funeral, Scully will be ready to sink her teeth and her claws into your forearm--just like I taught her. Call it pre-emptive revenge or whatever, but I and almost every other woman I know deserve to be whole people, even when we aren't around.