Page 4 of Come Out, Come Out

I guess I didn’t.

My poor parents.

I hope I get to see my sister again.

Numbness spreads from my limbs and into my torso before I slip into that cold darkness, which honestly feels like the best sleep anyone could dream of. Better than a night spent in a luxury hotel with the air blasting.It’s so peaceful here.The relieved sigh that slips through my lips releases the last bit of life left in me; I can feel it in the hollowness of this body I’ve called home for twenty-eight years.

Aiden

January 15th, 2020-One Month Later

Ever so slowly, light flickers back in, like when you wake up in a hospital bed. But there’s no softness beneath my back or relieved faces staring back at me. Thoughts begin to whir to life like a computer booting up and it takes several seconds for me to recognize the bare walls around me. I honestly didn’t expect there to be anything after death. I’ve never been religious and never hoped for something better to be waiting on the other side. This definitely wasn’t something better.

The air in here feels dead. The place looks especially morbid thanks to the built-up grime in the grout. The white walls are dirty with old fingerprints and flecks of dried blood, and the air is stale with death and abandonment. I turn in a circle, taking in what’s become of the house I died in.The house I killed in.

The magnitude of that reminder is like another plunging knife, but I don’t regret it. They got what they deserved. They may not have been the ones to run the blade down my sister’s wrists, but they did everything they could to drive her to that point. If this was my punishment, then so be it.

I move to explore the rest of the house, but my eyes catch on the rust-brown stain on the floor. Kneeling down, I press my hand to it. For what reason? I’m not sure, but I somehow know that’s the last connection to the life I once had. I run my fingers over the textured wood, but confusion sparks when I realize it’s not cool against my fingertips like it should be.

Dots connect as I piece together my circumstances.

I’m able to see and touch things, but the sensations are all wrong, like I’m here but I’m not.

I died, but I’m not gone.

Does that mean that I’m a ghost?

Quickly, I make my way over to the closest bedroom I remember having a mirrored closet. I stand right in front of it and take in my reflection. I look exactly the same, down to my worn combat boots, which I guess is a relief, but I feel it in my bones. I’m dead.

Great. I’m a fucking ghost. I guess what they say is true, ‘ain’t no rest for the wicked’. But if that’s the case, then where are those other fuckers. I can’t be the only one stuck here.

“Come out here, you fucking cowards,” I yell, but only my own raspy voice echoes back at me from every barren corner. As I wait for something, any clue that the others are here, a distinct sense of solitude fills the air around me. I should be relieved. I am, I suppose. I don’t have to spend whatever this is with them. I don’t understand it, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. It is what it is. I can only hope that there’s somewhere worse than this and they’ve ended up there.

Resigned to acceptance, I decide to explore the rest of the house. Random pieces of furniture were left behind—a couch in the living room, a desk in one of the bedrooms, the beer pong table of all things—but otherwise, it’s been wholly abandoned. The buildup of dust and dirt unfortunately isn’t any indication of how long it’s been since I died; it’s not like it was kept clean before. It could have been a few days or months.

I walk over to the cracked window in Nate’s room and peer out. Heavy, gray clouds fill the sky, and wind rustles through the trees. It smells like late winter, but I can’t really be sure. I died on December 13th, so it’s maybe been a month or two.

A month or two of no memories. A month or two of my parents mourning me on top of Becca. A month or two of lost time with no idea why. I don’t have the energy to invest in all the questions other people might be preoccupied with. I’m dead that much is clear, so it really doesn’t fucking matter. What does consume me once again, is my loss.

Becca.

The thought strikes me that my circumstances may apply to her too. What if she’s been home all along? She could have been watching me drown my sorrows in the very bath where hers caught up with her. Guilt sits heavy in my chest amongst the hope. Despite everything, that possibility is comforting. Maybe she was never gone forever. I might never know. My fingers find the red butterfly that dangles from my right ear; this and her silver thumb rings were the only things I could bear to take from her room. I’m glad I snagged the earring on a whim before I left.

With that small comfort to steady me, I keep walking, forcing my feet forward, to distract myself.

After touring the rest of the house, I spread myself out on the couch and watch the day pass by through the window. I always thought it was odd how people would say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. I didn’t experience that, but now, sitting here with nothing but time, I let myself wade through the past. Almost like revisiting an old favorite movie. I fast forward through the shittier parts, I’ll revisit them later—what else do I have to do—but right now, I need to remember the good. Laying here reminds me of those days when Becca would let me crash her movie marathons with her friends. They’d pile a bunch of blankets and pillows on the floor, then set up an array of the best damn snacks I’ve had in my life. The movie line-up was always solid, too. It was usually a mix of rom-coms and period pieces–Pride and Prejudice (2005 version, of course) or Moulin Rouge were always included and I was secretly thrilled. Becca knew that though. She also saw that sometimes, even a loner needed some company. She’d been a good sister.

Whoever implied that death was peaceful clearly hadn’t fucking experienced it. In reality, it was absolutely maddening. It’s Hell.

Time is a muddy thing that clings to me and distorts my sense of the world around me—of which there is very little of, might I add. I attempted to leave this house behind, I’d hoped to go home and see if my sister might be there, but I wasn’t able to. I made it off the porch and down the patch of dirt that served as a driveway, but when I walked into the tree line, I ended up right back inside the house.

Determined as ever, I tried a few times more, but any time I would push the boundary, near-shattering pain coursed through me like my insides were being torn apart and my head was going to explode. I don’t know what’s worse, that or the endless emptiness and isolation.

The lack of any and all stimulation is getting to me, and yet, there’s no escape. For who knows how long, it’s just been me and my thoughts. I relive the last moments of my life over and over again. The suction of my knife in their organs, the sharp slice of the blade ramming into me, and then the hollowness of my last breaths.

As the reality of my situation sinks in, I even start to hope my sister isn’t still here, lingering in this fucked up space between life and death. I would never wish this miserable existence, or lack thereof, on her. I hope she’s somewhere better. She has to be. Becca was kind; fuck whatever religious zealots had to say about taking your own life. If there was a God, he should have protected her. She might not have believed in anything either, but Becca was undeniably a good person. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

My gut turns as memories of my sister in that bathtub flash across my mind for the millionth time. I would give anything for a distraction. Instead, I’m stuck with the discomfort my emotional turmoil causes without the physical relief it craves. I give it a pathetic shot, pacing around the house as if I don’t know every single centimeter by now. And when the frustration mounts, I find myself throttling the knob of the front door and making my way outside to pace in the open air. At least it’s a change of scenery. But no matter where I go, the stillness and silence that presses in around me never give me any space. It’s just me and my misery.

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