Last time you spoke to me, my love, it was two winters past.
You held me to your bedside with an unyielding grasp You watched me with your close eyes, rendering me immobile And you turned my heart to stone, my love, more and more every night. Selfishly I used to wish every day would be your last. One night, I thought that your light had finally dimmed But I was wrong, my love, and when I awoke the next day, you were still with your body All I wanted was to watch your weak ember surrender All I wanted was for you to finally die And I was going to help you do so It was strange, my love, when you spoke for the first time in days For the only words you spoke were of joy Did you even realize, my love, that I have never felt joy? That you kept me from this feeling of bliss? And so I was ready for you to have no joy no life And after I had finally made you leave, my love Nothing but a smoldering fire provided light in your gray room.
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My last memory is of my shoes. My favorite pair of white and yellow striped keds, spattered in spots of blood here and there from the gunshot in my chest.
It hurt like hell, but I wouldn’t say it was too intolerable. I did cry though. I spent a pretty good deal of money to buy those shoes. I was pretty disappointed that I would never get those stains out. And so that was what my death felt like. I felt like that was really the only significant thing about it. Well, that and the date-- August 23th, 1993, 12:03 a.m. I thought it was interesting that everything ended in a 3. See, Ironic stuff always happened to me. Hearing the exact song on the radio I was thinking about. Seeing a word I had just learned everywhere the next day. Meeting someone with the same name as me-- Lisa, by the way (sorry I didn’t tell you sooner-- it slipped my mind). But nothing ever happened that had anything to do with time. Time seemed to not like me very much. It always seemed to be against me. And it still is, even in my death-- time has let memories of me and my story wash away. Basically all I’ve become since my funeral is a “popular teenage girl with an untimely death.” Then a newspaper article. And then a campfire story brought up every three years or so, if I’m lucky. I guess that’s why I’m finally coming back. Look. If you wanna know the truth... I was actually killed on a dare... dared by me. See, in a book, me, my killer (Sophie), and our one other friend Ashley read that if you perform this one crazy voodoo ritual, you could come back to life and live forever and rule the world and shit. So I dared Sophie to shoot me with my dad’s gun. I guess it was a pretty rash decision. But of course, at the time, I thought we would be coming back right away. I made sure that Sophie was going to kill herself afterwards, first, of course, or else it wouldn’t work. There had to be two deaths, or something. I don’t know. The wording was weird. So she did-- shot herself right in the temple. And Ashley did the rest of the ritual, with the weird-ass chants and the smelly herbs and everything. And nothing happened. Right away, nothing happened, that is. I was buried, and since then, everything has been black. It’s been 5 years now... And I think its starting finally. Yesterday, I felt my fingertips again. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them, feel the cotton sheet under my body, the moist air, the wood of the coffin that surrounded me. It’s been a week since I felt my fingertips. Today, I moved my arms and my legs. Geez, I can’t wait for the day when I can bust my ass out of here. A month since I moved my arms and legs. Today, I heard for the first time in 5 years. I heard Ashley’s voice, muffled somewhat from the six feet of packed dirt and grass and shit, but it was Ashley’s voice. “Lisa. Holy shit, Lisa. Jesus. You screwed up... my entire life. Both of you bitches. Your stupid ass couldn’t read the whole damn passage of the book could you. You just couldn’t do it.” I hear her continuing on, but I block her out as I rack my brain for the memory of that book. Hard. Like, the hardest I have ever in my life... or whatever you want to call it. And then the images floated into my mind, of the yellowed pages, the messy typewriter text, the images explaining how these rituals are supposed to work. And then the one line from the middle of the passage came to mind. The deceased shall be the ruler of their death, body, and grave. And nowhere on that damned page did it speak of life after death. No where did it hint at a redemption. Of a throne. It spoke of ruling your own damn little box. And so I felt my fingertips, and so I felt my toes, and so I felt my stomach growling in hunger, and so I felt my throat, dry and coarse from years of decay and damp air. And I felt my arms, and my legs. And I felt my mind. And I felt my agony. And I felt my screams rising out of my chest, never to be heard for the rest of eternity, muffled under the six feet of goddamn earth. |
Mimi WytheA collection of gothic short stories. Archives
March 2015
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