It was my fault. I caused it. I'll hold my hands up high and say I'm to blame for the entire event. I should have listened to mu mother's words. They would have saved my life if only I wasn't so stubborn. Those words still haunt me now. She used to tell me “your far too young” for a lot of different reasons. I should have listened to her. I didn't. That's why it all went wrong. Forgive me for not introducing myself, my name is Louise Corder and I was sixteen when I was killed on the first of July back in 2011. This is how I died.

I looked in the mirror before I began subconsciously preparing myself for battle in my own unique way. Using foundation, I hid all the little imperfections on my paper white face. I applied rouge to my cheeks in a vain attempt to make my skin look less pale. Three coats of shiny black polish covered my nails. Onto my eyelids I carefully drew a thick line of dark eye liner. I blinked furiously, coating my lashes in mascara. My hands shaking with nerves, I curled my hair.

Why was I so nervous? That's simple – I was getting ready to preform. All my life I had loved to sing and I wanted to become a well known artist. I wanted to be in the charts. I wanted people to know my name. Though, to get there I knew I was going to have to take baby steps. So, to kick-start my career, I found a pub in the middle of town that was in need of a new singer. It wasn't the most glamorous work but people were still hearing me sing so it didn't matter. I know I was under age, though in my employers defence I had lied to them and used fake ID so it wasn't rally their fault. They weren't to know. Every now and then when business is really good, I preform a set of songs. Sometimes I'd sing my favourites, sometimes I’d sing requests. I didn't mind what I was singing, so long as my voice was heard.

My mother never knew about any of it. When I first found out that they wanted me to sing at the pub, I suggested that I should apply to be a singer in a bar or something (she didn't know I had applied at all, let alone got in, so I had to lie). She responded with “your far too young to be preforming in a bar! Your under age and even if that didn't matter, how would you get there? It starts at half past ten at night. You can't be walking the streets alone at that time of night. Just think of how it could effect your school work too!” and I never brought it up again. Of course, I did it anyway. It was an amazing opportunity, how could I say no? I was just very, very careful so she never found out.

Anyway, back to the story. My final touch was to apply a deep red lipstick to add splash of colour to my pale face. I looked at myself in the mirror on e final time and smiled. My black hair fell in prefect ringlets, my green eyes shone with excitement, my black dress hugged me figure then kicked out at my waist. A swarm of butterflies fluttered around in the pit of my stomach, making me feel ill. I wanted to do well so badly. when I was on stage nothing else mattered. I loved singing more than anything. I threw on a pair of clunky boots (my 'Goth' boots, according to my mum), crept downstairs an d left my house being careful not to make a sound as I closed the door.

It was a forty minute walk to the pub but a fair amount of the route was back streets, hidden away from houses and shops. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a lovely, warm summer's evening. Darkness had crept over the sky, enveloping it in it's bitter sweet peacefulness. I loved it so much, walking under the stars. It made me feel weightless, like I hadn't got a care in the world. I loved walking there. It gave me time to think before I sung, time to calm myself down. That and as it was so closed off, it was very unlikely anyone would see me and tell my mum.

I was less than half way into my journey when it all went wrong. I saw them before they even noticed my presence. There was a group of about five or six guys, all taking an extreme amount of anger out on someone who didn't appear to deserve it an d I didn't like it on e little bit. Why did he deserve to be attacked?

Now, any normal person would have either left them to it because they were scared for their own safety or phoned the police. At this time I feel the need to point out, I'm not normal. I always fought forwards, not just for myself but for anyone who needed me. That's just sort of who I was, everyone else came first and my needs came second. My mum also told me I was far too young to fight for the world. At the time, I didn't care. All I knew was someone was in need of help, fast.

I stormed over to them, all guns blazing. I yelled at them to leave him be but they just laughed at me. I get it. What was a teenage girl going to do? My shouting only made it worse. They attacked him again: a punch to an already bleeding nose, a knee to the stomach and a kick to the groin. I couldn't bear to watch any more abuse so I intervened. So, like a fool I placed myself between the trembling boy on the ground an d the largest guy who was leading the attack. I growled a final warning to leave him be. I demanded to know what this poor boy had done to deserve what they were doing to him. The grins on their smug faces said it all. He hadn't done a thing, he was just their latest victim. My blood boiled, rage pumped through my veins.

I felt his fist collide with my stomach and a jolt of pain spreading sideways. I thought nothing of it at the time. Then, like the coward he truly was he ran. I thought it was over. I had won. When in reality, I couldn't have been more wrong. I turned to face the boy on the ground, his wide, worried eyes fixed on my stomach. Confused, I looked down. My hands were covered in blood, my blood. Where was it coming from? It gushed from a long, snaking wound, at one end a knife handle protruded from my skin. The crimson rivers soaked into my dress, forming a lake.

Then the pain kicked in. It seared my skin, spreading across my body like wild fire. My knees buckled and I slumped against a damp wall. I’d never experienced pain like it. It enveloped my body, making me shake violently. I was in hell.

The boy that I’d helped wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and scrambled over to me. It was the first time I actually looked at him. He was actually quite good looking. He had scruffy hair kind green eyes and a contagious grin. I smiled through the pain. At least he was good looking. Don't get me wrong, I would have helped anyone but the fact that he was good looking made it even more worth wile. At least I’d saved a pretty face!

He pressed down on the wound in a vain attempt to slow the blood loss. “Thanks” he stammered, still shocked by the whole ordeal. I forced another week smile. By this time, it hurt to breath. Cold, I was so cold. He tugged off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. As stupid as it sounds, I can remember thinking about whether or not it was a good time to ask him for his number. Probably not, after all I was dying. He quickly explained that he was going to get help and squeezed my hand reassuringly. Then he was gone.

That was the very last thing I felt before the pain finally took over. As much as I hate to admit it , tears were streaming down my cheeks. I knew I was dying. I wasn't scared. Why should I have been?? I couldn't change it anyway. I was losing way too much blood. By the time he found me again, I’d be dead. He'd never get back in time. It wasn't his fault, sometimes things just don't work out how we want them to.

I could feel my life slipping away as the blood did. I couldn't help thinking back to my mothers warning. She was right. I was too young. I was to young to defend the world. I was too young to be singing in pubs. I was too young to be out on my own so late at night. I wish I had listened to her but I was far too stubborn to do that.

As my heart finally gave, my brain lost all function and my body failed, I thought of something else I shouldn't have been doing at sixteen. Above all, I was far too young to die.