"Why did you do it?" I asked the ghost. He was just standing there in my new apartment.
I did not need this. My husband committed suicide five years before, and I was still getting over that. He'd died because he couldn't live with himself after that kid died.
It's a bitch being empathic, having ESP, being psychic, whatever the nuts call it. I know when Ortiz is going to get a hit, I know if a friend of mine who lives five thousand miles away is in need, I know if I'm going to get sick from the flu. I can tell your fortune without tarot cards, thanks. I knew when the Towers were going to be hit.
I heard them, all of them: they were screaming in the end.
So now, here I am in this new apartment, and there's a ghost. I don't mind them; they're a fact of life. This one just bothers me because he's a suicide.
I'm considering calling my real estate agent to tell her there's a leak or something.
So I took a deep breath. "Come on, you know you can tell me." If I help them, well they - go. Or something.
"You believed in me."
That was the last thing I'd have suspected. "Frank?" He looked different. Maybe they all do, on the other side.
"You believed in me. I failed."
Now I understood. "No, Frank, you didn't," I said. I wanted to take him in my arms like I had so many times, to hold him close. We used to be each other's therapy. I, the special ed teacher, he the pediatric oncologist. "You did all you could - and more." Hollow words. I used to be more eloquent than that.
He stuck around while I set up my new place. I didn't need much, just a couple bookcases, a bed, and a desk. When Frank died I gave away all the stuff that was mutually ours. Too many memories. I felt like I was a kid again, just out of college, living in a house with three other women. I stuck a TV dinner in the microwave.
"I failed," the sad voice told me, hovering over me as I pondered overcooked chicken and beans.
"Cut it out, Frank; the hollow-eyed stare isn't going to creep me out and you know it!" He was definitely more annoying dead.
"I failed."
He kept that up all night, and I had an awful time sleeping. Was I more bitter now? Had I just become one more angry widow, crying "why me" to the night? I thought of the day I came home early, because it was his birthday, and I found the stove on, pasta boiling over.
Shocks coming from the bathroom. . .
He was long dead. All that remained of him was a note saying "I'm sorry."
But now, there was this.
Why now?
I tossed and turned all night and went to my job at the supermarket
Below are the top articles rated and ranked by Helium members on:
by Jess Howe
"Why did you do it?" I asked the ghost. He was just standing there in my new apartment.
I did not need this. My husband committed
by Jesse Hamric
I stared down into the barrel of the gun. The black abyss seemed almost welcoming. My finger was planted firmly on the trigger,
"Dear Mom, I assume you have found me. I don't really know what to write in this note. I guess goodbye. And I love you.
by Karen My
She steps to the edge and carefully examines the view. She kicks at the dust around her feet and watches as the sand and
A New Dawn; An Old Life
In her room she laid in her bed, unable to sleep. Unable to close her eyes in the darkness and let
View All Articles on:
Short stories: Suicide
Add your voice
Know something about Short stories: Suicide?
We want to hear your view.
Write now!
Featured Partner
Teachers Without Borders (TWB)
TEACHER CONNECTIONS WRITING CONTEST: November 18 - December 9, 2009 Teachers Without Borders has partnered with He...more
hide