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?

Best of the Brine

Can't Have One Without The Other


Your name is David and you are between the ages of 18 and 24 years old.

You watch me.

Today you take your time when you follow me home, being careful not to alert me to your presence. Your shadow falls behind you, eerie and cold on the pavement. Rain, just light enough to lend a chill to the air, settles on your leather jacket. The black material creaks as you walk forward. With great care and anticipation, you slip your gloves over your fingers, squeezing your hands into fists. You know that I do not notice you. Stealth is my only companion tonight on the lonely walk home.

A street light flickers above your head, and for just a moment you consider aborting your plan. But it is such a good plan. You can't resist the urge to keep going. The end will be so very sweet.

Your boot lands in a small puddle, sending droplets of water into the night air like an explosion. They reflect the light like diamonds, throwing miniature rainbows in all directions. You think they are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the way the vein in my neck pulsates with rich, dark blood. You want to see it explode just like the puddle of water underneath your foot. The liquid will coat your fingers, turning your gloves into red velvet.

You bury your excitement in your current task: watching me clumsily unlock my door. With great effort, you let your walls fall down and begin to let yourself fall in love with me. It is in the way some of my hair has fallen from my pony tail, so I tuck it behind my ear. You find yourself fascinated by the smudge of ink that has gone unnoticed all day along my jawline. The love swells in your chest until you are consumed by it. You know that without it, your next actions would have little to no effect. Because you can't hate someone without loving them first.

The door clicks shut behind me, and you know that I won't lock it for another forty-five seconds. When I first arrive home, I always take off my jacket, shoes and turn on lights. Then, I swing my purse over a chair in the living room and place my keys in the pretty little ceramic bowl decorated by whales and seaweed my niece gave to me at Christmas. It is only then that I turn around towards the door to ensure my safety for the rest of the evening.

But the hallway is darkened by your shadow. You lock the door for me and commit to memory the complete shock and terror on my face. Words begin to form on my lips, but you know what I will say. You have heard the pleas, the cries, the accusations dozens of times before. I am no different than any of the others, except that I am now and you still love me.

It's only when you see that I have wiped away the smudge and brushed my hair back into place that your love is lost. You think back to the puddle of water and all that blood pumping through my body. Red velvet comes to mind as you watch me run towards the kitchen. But I will not escape you tonight.

As you tie me down, you introduce yourself. I don't hear you, because my mind has already left this place.

You spill some of my blood and wait for it to pool.

Splash, you think to yourself as you pound your fist into the puddle. But the explosion is not what you wanted; you need more.

You wait, and watch me.