Four Lost Years, and More to Come

Sometimes, when I look back on the night it happened I see only fleeting memories, simple glimpses of the past… a deceased insect, a chilling atmosphere, her choppy blonde hair, my petite frame, her singular breast, my internal struggle to not hurt those who are hurt. What if I made it all up? What if she was right? What if I really am a liar?

People fall in love at eighteen. Sometimes they drink, sometimes they party, sometimes they live. I’m not quite sure how any of those things would have felt at that age. I’m not quite sure how any of those things are supposed to feel now, even four years later. Four draining, sickening, lost years. I’d like to believe that I’d have turned out different if life worked in my favor. Then maybe I could chase my dreams fervently, without the doubt and the wilting skin upon my back.

People run away at eighteen. I feel for those who do, who sprint headfirst out of their nest, and plummet to the ground with nothing but a clipped, stubble of a wing. It didn’t take me long to find where I was headed, I knew she would take me in. Her mother opened the door to me first, she knew when she saw me and my sunken eyes. Grabbing the camera, she lifted my shirt and began to snap, encompassing my body with frames that would prove to be worthless, memories of a broken child. I stood vacant and soaked in the emptiness around me. How long until they came for me? They knew.

Mr. Police-Man arrived after 30 minutes. I was scared of him. Petrified that he might believe I’m lying because I cannot weep in front of strangers, because I cannot show emotion to those I do not trust. It was a small town. Small towns kill people from the inside out. Slowly, and incredulously, without a peep. Everyone turns their heads and whispers in fluent, hushed whimpers, and leaves their blinds open to the dark, peeping into corners that do not belong to them.

A recollection of the night’s events. The short return from work, the dark blankets of stars, the quiet music on the drive home, the brightly lit entrance, the dread. A few squeaking steps, a promptly-kept routine. A panic stricken guidance, preparing for the arrival of unannounced guests. A slight vibration flowing through the air, an attempt to help prepare, a mistake. The wrong washcloth it was. The deceased fly poured gently down the drain, disappearing before her entrance. My downfall.

A few punches to the back. Confusion. A plea to stop turned into demand. Time moves slowly, a calculated guess as to what would not hurt her. A time stop to ponder rather it is moral to hurt a person who is dying when they hurt you. Silent wishes to not destroy, but to defend oneself. A knock to the cold, tiled floor, an ancient ground. An arm around my throat. Fear, sweat, dread. A lack of physical pain. Just the color red… vibrantly, passionately, furiously blinding me.

Run. I sometimes feel like I’m still running. But this time, I do not have someone there to catch me. This time I am singular, dashing towards all open doors, even the dark ones. Especially the dark ones, the ones without souls, without lenses, the only ones who seem to care about humanity when humanity refuses to pay them a single cent for a broken spine and a life spent in turmoil that mulls over their fractured skulls.

I wish I could have been alone, and now I wish I knew beings apart from humans. Creatures of the night… other people who explore during dangerous hours, but fear humanity more than the continuous ticks of a midnight hour. Lust for something apart from reality will be the death of me. I can sense it through the thickets of fog and creasing time, luring me into the inescapable trap of a lifeless existence.

My mind likes to play tricks on me. It tells me that villians are pure. Angels cloaked in mischief and dismembered because of a fallen voice… they can transform, trudge through the color white with my help. But what can I do? Whisper poetic verses into their ears, bore them with prose of a land far away, speak to them of dreams of free-flying eagles and pirate ships that sail towards love, not gold, against a blood-ridden horizon. It’s inhumane to feel bad for the broken… that’s what they tell me. And yet, I cannot fathom compassion for the set and stable, I do not think I’m capable of such feelings… perhaps in another life, I once was, I’d like to believe I was.

I’d be petrified of the night if I had not grown accustomed to it. If holidays felt warm, and dinners were created with love, and my house was tiny, perhaps I’d hold hands with angels, and weep along with their fiddling hearts and play with their harps. Still, I cannot complain. Most of it’s in my head… is it not? It took me some time to realize that my novel is not the only one that needs to be written. Perhaps our struggles do not matter compared to those who have passed because of theirs. I’m lucky to be breathing… breathing in a room full of pity and a lack of appreciation for the beauty of life. It’s stuffy in here, wreaking of remorse and guilt and confusion. Wish it would rain more… the rain sells like mom’s house, I could drown in that river… join Mrs. Woolf… we could write together, and weep together… although, there is not much of a difference between the two. I’ve always felt like my heart belonged there, under waves undiscovered, resting in the numbness of a soul without feelings.

I listen to my memories often. Revisit the lights of my past that no longer remember my name. Some would call me a stalker… because I’m obsessed with who I used to be. She had courage, passion, beauty, youth… things she took for granted in the moment. I view her in my dreams when I’m awake, and trace her canvas with a tired finger as she runs through dark forests with the other children, and makes memories without the alcohol. Her naivety was indescribable, plastered on her sleeve like a faded warning sign, trudging through lands of positivity until they reached a cliff-end. At least they fell together, hand-in-hand, scream-in-scream, whimper-in-whimper. Now she’s here. Me. Now. Searching for the ghost of a girl who ceases to exist.