Archive for February, 2016


To be read only in complete darkness.


I

The thing about fear is somewhat embedded in knowing a certain something could happen or had happened.

That is why starting a horror story with “This is a true Story” guarantees you have the attention of the reader.

Is this a true story?  Was this a true story? Perhaps.

It began when doors began to close on their own. I’d walk past a door and before I could reach to shut it, it did so by itself.

I live in a somewhat Windy City so this is pretty much normal. I thought nothing about it until one day, under my breath, I said “Too lazy to close the door…wish someone would help”

Obediently, the door creaked as it began closing.

Again, pretty normal.

“Do I live with a ghost ni” I asked in my habitual manner of talking to myself.

“Yes” a voice right beside me said. “I’m waiting for you to sleep”

I live alone.

———————————-

II 

The roommate is out again so I get a silent house to myself.
I turn the lights off and slide under the cold covers of the duvet.
I dutifully stay on my side of the bed, and I push my roommates teddies to her side of the bed.
“Treat them nicely” she’d always tell me whenever she was going away for the weekend and I’d murmur a “Yea…”.
This night, I look at them, black button eyes glinting, illuminated from my phone.
“Stupid piece of shit” I curse at them, and fling one, a purple llama, against the wall.
It is time to sleep.
As my body slowly drifts, I hear a whisper.
“Stupid piece of shit” a voice suddenly says.
Something violently pushes me off the bed.

The llama is back on the bed.

———————————

III

Things disappear when I drop them.
They reappear in other places.
“Am I going crazy?” I murmur, bemused.
“No” a pale, little boy replies. “Chucky just likes to play”

Sad songs


These sad songs won’t leave my head.
It’s my favourite singers, haunted smoky voices murmuring in my head.
Minor chords and sighs, they exhale like cigarette smoke.
I hate the smell of cigarettes. That stench of burning lungs and promised in death.
Yet.
I indulge in this brand of death, these songs of sadness.
I inhale their exhale deeply, until I make their story mine.
Or their stories are really mine.
I tear away carefully built happy places in my head and examine the rotten wood and quick sand that is its foundation.
Gone.
All dead and gone.
All is a lie.
Abandon hope, all ye who put thine earbuds in ear to imbibe of this aural cyanide.
It is in these moments I forget every vestige of happiness I have.
Life. Love. Sustenance.
I pick manically at old scabs until their new.
I pick at ulcerated wounds until they bleed.
And I keep picking, even as it hurts.
I’m trying to make it heal, I tell myself but I’m no healer.
So, I muddle through mess of blood and pulpy flesh.
But I resist the urge to sever everything in despair.
The songs of sadness tell me to sever everything.
I resist.
And in my resistance, dare I hope to find my salvation?
So, I yawn in class and wipe the tears I pretend have come from boredom.
I wear my glasses to hide red eyes behind thick frames and I fake a sneeze just to have a reason to wipe a dripping nose.
I think about treating myself to school lunch I may not be able to afford.
And I smile.

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