The Best of the Brine

Haunted

Today was a day just like any other. It started and ended the same as the 9,028 days before it. The sun came up, made it’s never changing journey across the azure sky, and dipped quietly behind the pale horizon. There were 24 hours, 1440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds in this day. Babies were brought wailing into the world, people were sent to meet their maker, but most people went about their business with no second thought to this single day. Just one day among thousands.

But for me, this was not a day like any other.

Today was the day I died and I did not go to meet my maker. Going to meet the almighty would be like being born all over again, and that would mean not remembering anything from this too short life of mine. And forgetting is unacceptable.

Forgetting would mean not being able to remember her. And not being able to remember her-her smile, her eyes, the gentle slope of her neck- is the worst kind of blasphemy I can think of.

I’m not stupid. I understand that what I have here is not any real kind of life. It's not even a proper death for that matter. I know can never really have her. I can only watch. Not that my watching will make any difference; no matter what I see, I can never do anything about it.

I’m not stupid. I don’t expect to suddenly take control like some Patrick Swayze wannabe, and be able to commune with those I have left behind. Or rather, those I was supposed to leave behind. Cause I’m still here. And I’m staying. And that is how it will remain, for as long as… well. God knows how long.

And until then, I intend to be a watcher. Her watcher. I am sure I will see things that I don’t want to. Someday in the future she will find someone new. And that will hurt. It will hurt more than dying.

Which, now that I mention it, didn’t hurt much at all. I was driving my car, thinking that I didn’t really want Indian food for dinner, but she managed to persuade me, like always. She had Lady Gaga cranked to full volume, even though I am not what one would call Lady Gaga’s biggest fan. She was laughing. I was laughing.

Then there was the blast of a horn and light exploded across the windshield, and then? Then, I was gone. Just like that. And she is still here. Grieving for a man she thinks is lost. Her hands are clutching a tissue between her knees, and her forehead is resting on the surface of her wooden dining room table. Her shoulders stopped shaking from sobs some time ago, but she is still crying. Leaking. Tears are falling from her eyes, but she is too exhausted to really cry.

“Tom.”

She says my name. Hope does not flutter in my chest because I know she cannot see me. She doesn’t say anything else either, to worn out to do anything but leak, and whisper my name. It’s almost enough to make me regret my decision. Almost.

She would be so pissed if she knew. She would throw a massive fit, outraged that I chose to forsake my afterlife in favor of following her around like a pathetic ghost-stalker. If she knew, she would demand I change my mind. She would banish me from her presence. She would probably try to hurt me, force me to move on.

But she won't get the chance to do any of these things, because she’ll never know.

I walk behind her. I want to put my hand on her shoulder, to comfort her, but I know that is against the rules.

Not that she will be able to feel my hand, or even sense my presence. But I will be touching her while at the same time unable to feel her. And that is enough to undo me. It is my own restriction. If I tell myself I am not allowed to touch her, I will never suffer the heartache of not being able to feel her.

She walked away from the accident untouched. I like to think that I was a buffer, but in reality I know that it was just luck. I know her well enough to guess that it is tearing her up inside-why me instead of her?

She sighs.

“Why.”

I expected this. People do this when they lose someone they love. But I don’t get my hopes up. I know she doesn’t know I’m there. These are rhetorical questions, meant to hang in the air unanswered.

“Why did you do this? It’s so unfair!” Her voice breaks on the last word and she swallows.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” A flood of tears. God, I hate seeing her cry. It’s so wrong for her to cry. She was always so happy, so whole, and it seems unnatural for her to suddenly be so broken. I turn away.

She stands, wiping her tears on her sleeve, and I wonder if she has finally exhausted herself enough to go to bed. It’s almost 2:00 am.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she says again. Her voice shakes, but she doesn’t cry. At least not until, “God, Tom.”

I know she can’t see me, and I know she doesn’t know I’m there. I walk into the kitchen, and she sags back down on her chair.

“Why did you leave?”

I wonder when anger will replace grief. That has to be easier to handle than this. This is torture. Self inflicted, of course. I chose to stay. But torture nonetheless.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” she says a final time. I turn, looking around the door frame.

“How could you do this? How could you be so selfish?” I sigh. And then:

“You were supposed to go.”

I stare.

“You weren’t supposed to stay, Tom. Why did you stay?”

I look down at myself. She doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not stupid, I’m not some Patrick Swayze wannabe who thinks I’ll suddenly be able to commune with those I’ve left behind.

Impossibly, her eyes find mine. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

But then, I didn’t leave them behind, did I?