You killed me.
I want to say it, scream it, whisper it, murmur it, make any sound at all to convey just how broken he made me, how angry I am, how I wish I was alive again just to see the gross horror that would cross his face as he realizes who I am. But I can’t speak. All I can do is stare into his hollow, unblinking eyes.
You killed me.
Somebody calls to him from behind me, and he rises robotically. I automatically move out of his way, allowing him to half-stumble past me and down a cramped hallway. I follow him.
The dim fluorescent lights flicker as we make our way down the dirty corridor, and the nurse stops at a thin, wooden door. He stops for a moment to stare at the door, reading the small notecard taped onto it.
Brackens, Deceased.
I stare at it too, feeling something bubble low in my gut. It’s funny, I think, how the entirety of a human life, all the accomplishments, all the failures, all the joy, all the pain, embarrassment, and struggle, could be summarized into just two words. Brackens, Deceased.
He seems to realize this too.
The nurse clears her throat, Mister, we don’t have all day, and he starts a little. With a resigned nod, he carefully pushes open the door and hesitantly steps into the tiny, blue room, that’s empty save for a rickety table. He pauses.
The nurse squeezes around him, sighing as she reaches over and pulls the sheets down enough to reveal a face. He chokes on a noise, and I glare at him. Oh, there’s no need to pretend, I sneer at him. Who are you trying to impress?
He steps forward to get a closer look at the body -- at me -- and again I move with him. We stand on opposite sides of the table, playing a game of ‘who can look at me the longest without feeling faint?’
I win, but probably because he gave up on purpose.
The nurse sits him down in a chair as his face turns pale, and, shaking her head, leaves him alone in the room. Alone except me, of course.
I glance down at myself as he begins to speak.
“You don’t look different.”
I scoff, sincerely wishing he could see my glare. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“I’ve seen people after they’ve… you know.” He takes a shaky breath, and bows his head for a second, as if overcome with emotion. “And… they always look different. The things that make them, them, are gone.” He pauses. “But you…”
I finish the sentence. I look the same.
I study myself, and I suppose he’s right. The girl I knew, the girl in all the mirrors, the girl in the pictures, the girl in the reflection of the blade, she was right here. She hadn’t changed, as I had. Her face, still unwashed and bland. Her hair, still tangled, still a mess.
A mess. The result of a lifetime of meaningless work.
The plaque finally makes sense, as harsh as it is. Two words, all that’s needed to summarize a human life, so simple, plain, ordinary.
I suppose that’s all I ever was. Never complex, just… static.
I look away. I’m done here. With a final, angry glare, I turn and begin to leave the room.
“I don’t…” He breaks off. “I’m sorry.”
I freeze, one foot in the air as he says it. Incredulously, I whip around. What did you just say? Ghosts can’t talk apparently, but once again I find myself wishing I could scream.
He’s still staring at the me on the table, but his words filled the room like he was trying to reach something more. Something bigger than himself.
“It’s not easy, doing what I do. I know my actions cause people to hurt.”
Excuse me?
“I don’t always enjoy the aftermath, but I bear it.”
Who the hell do you think you are, some kind of hero?
“You probably couldn’t understand. They never do.”
You aren’t a hero, you’re a murderer. A serial killer! I push away from him. I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t want to hear his excuses, his fake apologies. I don’t care about his justifications, I just want him gone.
But as I reach for the door, I find myself frozen once again. I try to take another step further, but I can’t. My feet won’t move. I can’t move at all. I can only listen.
“Lila.” He says my name for the first time and it physically hurts me. “I think… I think you’ve changed me.”
I am numb. I can only listen.
“Looking at you here, all alone… I feel something I’ve never felt before.”
What, remorse? Don’t tell me you actually think that you’ve changed somehow, that you’ve grown.
“I can only ask…”
Ask for mercy in the afterlife, you rotted piece of flesh. Ask for me to spare you from my revenge. Ask for--
“Will you forgive me?”
What--
Somebody opens the door just as I’m storming towards him. “Time’s up, sir,” says the nurse. “She needs to be moved.”
He finally looks away from my body, pleading. All an act, I’m sure. I think. “Can I just have a few more minutes?”
The nurse regards him again. “You know, she didn’t have any living family.”
“I know.”
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Just…” he sighs. “A friend.”
A friend, he says.
The nurse must have fallen for his facade because she nods. “Another minute, then.”
Like me, she has her hand on the doorknob when he calls out to her again. “Wait.”
I guess he just has a way of drawing people in like that. I remember his charm when I first saw him, his kindness. How he had offered to buy me dinner, how he had actually noticed me, even though I wasn’t anything more than a clerk at the local gas station.
The nurse pauses.
“What… what are the plans for her after this? Is she going to be buried…?” He swallows.
“It’s to the crematory, sir. Standard procedure for those that can’t afford a burial plot.”
My heart stutters for a moment.
Cremation? I hadn’t known about that.
Wait, I say, reaching for the nurse. No, I don’t want to be cremated. There must be a mistake.
What happens to me if I’m cremated? Will I disappear like my body, with nothing left to remember me but ashes? Until now, I had only focused on him and my rage--I hadn’t even considered what my fate will be. I hadn’t thought about how easy it would be to erase me from this world.
I didn’t have a need to breathe anymore, but I felt my lungs constricting and my chest felt tight. I blinked rapidly to clear away the tears that were forming in my eyes.
I don’t want to be cremated. Please, please don’t. Please don’t burn me. I’m gasping. I’m shaking. Will I feel it? I don’t want to be gone. I don’t want to be erased. I don’t want to only be the sum of two little words. I can’t be!
“Crematory?” he says. He doesn’t seem surprised. “I see. Thank you.”
Wait, wait! I shout--curse my voice that won’t work. Please, I’ll do anything--don’t go!
But the nurse can’t hear me. She’s turning. She’s opening the door. She’s leaving--
Wait, wait, WAIT--
“Wait!” he shouts, propelled out of his seat with a surprising strength. My calls break off as the nurse and I look at him--her, impatiently; me, desperately.
He seems as startled as we are by his sudden outburst. “I--I don’t think you should do that.”
“Excuse me?”
Yes!
“I’m sorry, sir,” says the nurse shortly. “I’m afraid she simply couldn’t pay for--”
He takes a step forward. “I’ll pay. I’ll pay for a plot and a headstone and everything.”
Taken aback, the nurse responds, “I thought you were just a friend?”
“I owe her,” he says simply, by way of explanation. He seems to be regaining his composure, smoothing down his rumpled jacket, brushing a hand through his messy hair.
“She helped me realize something.”
“I see.” She examines him closely. “Well, I can call the mortician. He’ll make arrangements with you.”
“Thank you.” It sounds sincere. Nothing about him is sincere.
The nurse leaves as I take a step forward. Why did you do that?
You can’t possibly have changed.
I hope you know I won’t forgive you because of this.
“I don’t know what just happened.” He’s speaking to the me on the table again. I wish he would look at the me over here, in the room with him. “But I think I just heard your voice.” He clears his throat. “I want you to know that I’m telling the truth. When I first met you… you had this look in your eyes, like you were sleepwalking.”
I know.
“I thought no one would notice you, you know? Some girl at a gas station, probably a high school dropout, probably living alone in a tiny, cheap apartment. I thought it wouldn’t make a difference if I--”
Killed me. Ended my life. Pulled out my soul and stomped on it.
“But I took a look at your apartment afterwards, like I always do. They’re usually exactly what I expect after meeting the owner. Yours was different though. I saw the way you had neatly arranged everything to fit the space, saw everything that hung on your wall, your photos, your newspaper clippings...”
I could picture it in my mind. The little area on my refrigerator where I hung cut-outs of articles I found interesting, usually news of space exploration. Ever since I was little, I had always thought it would be cool to become an astronaut, to go and touch the stars. I wonder why I didn’t.
“And it hit me then, that you had potential to be someone. That you had potential to turn your life around and really become something great. You had dreams. Who was I to take those away?”
His words slap me across the face. Even though I’m a ghost, he can still see right through me. “I know I can’t make up for what I did. I know buying you a plot can’t fix anything, but if I show you that I can become a different person, maybe--if you can even hear me at all--maybe, you could grow to forgive me.”
He stands up to leave now, gently covering me back up with the sheet, and all I can do is watch him as he opens the door and exits without a single glance back. I wish I could have seen his expression as he faced that large empty hallway, as he faced a world that had been born anew. What was it like? What was it like to be allowed to start over, to change?
“You don’t look different…,” he had said.
I’d never have a chance to find out how I could have changed in the world I knew. He took that away from me.
But… he had also saved me from cremation. And he had shown me who I truly was.
Somehow, he had given me an opportunity to become something new.
He wanted me to forgive him. I don’t think I could ever do that, but, putting things into perspective, I have the whole of infinity now to learn to be someone…
I think I’m willing to grow.
Comments