Wednesday, February 9
How long has it been now, almost three years?
I knew a girl once. When she was dead she haunted me from the depths of my ceiling. Her skeleton fingers would pick and knit their way through the plaster and she'd just lay there watching me, so emotionless. The nights I'd cry, I'd always look above to that ceiling and spit insults at her. She seemed to have the ability to cross paths, and sometimes she took me with her. One night I took a walk in her land. It was smoky and mystical and every step felt like a new memory. I sat down under the pergola and watched her memories unfold. I was amazed to be in so many of them. There were the personals, like the time she first got her period and I had to try comfort her about something I knew nothing about. Or there were the more accurate ones, of all the times she pushed me down. Even living, her fingers were skeleton like and cold, and she could change her tune so fast. At only eight years old she already knew all there was to know about misery, but I never knew. The ghost of her held my hand and smiled, even this thin she was still breathtakingly beautiful and she showed me all the pain I never knew about. There was so much behind her, and at so young I never took the time to look anywhere but her front. She nodded at my thoughts and lead me deeper, to new memories, the ones she watched over. Her Mother, sitting at her funeral, with her sunglasses on and her pokerface on display. If we were to play poker she'd have won every game. Her Nana consoling me at her funeral, she was so strong and let me cry into her shoulder, she committed suicide two weeks after this. She showed me her world, and let me know that just because I left her at age 14, her suicide wasn't my doing. After she let me in, she left me for good. No longer would she taunt me, hiding in the ceiling laughing at every time I cried, telling me I was weak to have such feelings. No she left me, but I still see her, when ever I look fast at a person, or see a car like her Mums, I see her, and it kills me every time, because she's no longer there to hold my hand and let me know it's okay. The only thing that I really got from her suicide, is this new found anxiety that everyone I get close to is going to die, and leave me without a hand to hold.