All Ghosts Are Alone

Drown (droun) V.

To kill by submerging and suffocating in water or another liquid.

It was another sleepless night that did it.

I had the lamps lit as low as they could go, squinting in the dark at the blotched and bloodied page before me. The ink was red. The clock was buried under my mattress, but I could still hear the ticking, and each tick felt like a blow to my temple by some hammer. I couldn’t remember what I was trying to say or whom I was trying to say it to, but my handwriting was going crooked and the page was nearly full. There were other envelopes to fill, but this one, this damned page stretched out like dried skin before me was consuming all my patience. I had been patient for so very long, and all I wanted was to be done. The ink was red.

I hadn’t realized how hard I was pressing the pen into the paper. There was a hole now, staring at me like an eyeless socket. It looked desperate and I entertained the idea of fetching a new sheet of paper and rewriting my manic attempt to explain my head to someone.

This is what I see. It’s all colors, and I can’t remember your face any more, except you had very red hair and why can’t I remember your face? It hasn’t been so long, has it? Only a week or a year. But I’m feeling old and weren’t your eyes blue?

I scrawled my name at the bottom of the page. It wasn’t my normal, flowery, painfully careful handwriting, but the hand of some phantom. I folded the note carefully and stuck it in that first envelope.

“There now,” I said. There were still six left. I wrote words on small bits of paper, superfulous words that didn’t mean anything, and distributed them evenly. The ink was red.

It was too late to put anything in the post really, so I stacked them on my made bed next to various other trinkets. I grabbed the watch from underneath the mattress and found a cup of water. Watches don’t hold up very well in the water. I had wanted it to stop at a more even time, but it clearly read 5:17. I hadn’t realized how close to morning it was.

I placed the watch atop the letters. It was still wet and made some of the letters bloom into ink flowers. I then brushed my teeth, put on my clothes and my shoes.

The air was already muggy. It wasn’t the fresh air of the country, but the choking air of the city, that made me feel like a fish. The sun wasn’t even up and it felt like the entire world was an oven and I was burning up. It was a long walk. All the flowers in their potted homes that I passed along the way were drooping, their leaves scraping against the ground.

I could feel sweat beading along the back of my neck, where my hair was getting too long. I thought, maybe I should have cut it, but I liked peeking through it like a veil, where I could hide things if I was in want. It would just keep growing anyway. And growing and growing and…

It had taken me less time to get to the bridge than I had thought. I stood there, staring over the ledge. The water was calm. I thought about taking off my shoes, or maybe my coat.

Why can’t I remember your face, only I know what you feel like, what it feels like to touch your clammy skin when the moon is pregnant in the sky and there’s no one in the world but us.

I wasn’t afraid of falling. It was the impact, feeling the water break away around me, and then consuming me, filling up every crevice until I couldn’t breathe. It was hard not to fight, and of course I splashed around a little. Maybe I should have considered weights. But I never did know how to swim.

2. To drench thoroughly or cover with or as if with a liquid.

I was small, and I remembered him saying it to me. His voice was very loud.

“You’re going to be a man one day,” He said. His eyes were burning fire and I felt like screaming. I felt like I was burning. “You can’t keep crying and carrying on like this.”

I didn’t say anything. I never said anything. All I could feel was my skin blistering and falling off my bones.

“You have to set an example.”

When I went back into the room, I was no longer sniffling.

The small one asked, “Was it very bad?”

“No,” I said. There’s a bruise fading on my arm that looks like a lion.

“You were crying before,” Another said. They all had the same voice. When you’re small everyone has the same voice.

“I was not,” I said. I wondered if there will be any more bruise lions. They were a wan blue.

“You were,” Which one was that? But all their voices sounded the same and they all looked the same, with the same dark eyes I have and the same small mouths. “And I’ll bet you’ll do it again.”

“I will not,” I said. It’s followed by a chorus of child-fighting, where words are repeated until you forget what you’re fighting for. I wanted to cry again but I didn’t, because I could see his eyes watching from the hall, his eyes that are still burning.

3. To deaden one's awareness of.

There’s blood trickling down her thighs, which look so pale. It’s warm and taunting-look what you’ve done, you’ve killed her. Her legs are all red.

It’s alright, you haven’t hurt me.

I’m sorry. I’ll stop.

No, but don’t.

I’ll stop.

But it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.

I shouldn’t have taken it.

I wanted you to have it. I never wanted it in the first place.

I should go. I shouldn’t have done this.

It’s okay. Feel.

Hand at her heart, feeling it flutter in its cage of flesh. What is this to me anyway? She didn’t want it, so why am I burdened with it? I don’t want it. I want to give it back, but I can’t because it’s just blood splotched on her legs and on the bed and it’s a taste in my mouth. I don’t like how her heart feels beating against her chest.

I need to leave.

You can’t. We’re not done. I wanted you to have it.

I just can’t

4. To muffle or mask (a sound) by a louder sound.

“I think I could love you if you were dead.”

He gave me that disgusted look that people sometimes give you, when they’re too confused and can’t piece together what you’ve said to make sense.

“What are you going on about now?” His hair was very red.

“Nothing,” I said. “I didn’t say anything.”

He doesn’t make to question it. The building was made of metal and was the color of fog. He was smoking, puffing out little trails that led to his mouth, begging me to follow them.

“I could climb to the tenth floor,” I said. “And then I could jump out of one of the windows. Just go into someone’s office while they’re typing up memos, or whatever they do on the tenth floor and jump. It’d be high enough, I think.”

“You go and do that then,” He said. He looked unconcerned. “You go jump outta that window and see what happens.”

I bite my lip, chewing on the skin. It tastes like metal. “I will.”

“You go do it then,” He puffs out more smoke. The cigarette in my hand is still unlit.

“Would you cry if I did it?” I asked, rubbing the cigarette between my fingers. It felt waxy, or my fingers did.

“No,” He said, and made sure to look at me when he said it. Just so I knew it was true.

“I think I could love you if you were dead,” I said, again, this time louder, just so he could catch everything.

“You’re a damn fool,” He said, shaking his head.

5. Submerge and die

This time there is no girl and no girl-blood but there is him and he is strong and it is painful for me. I cry out. My throat is covered in something that is grossly thick. His jaw is hard against mine and his hair is red. I know I should not be doing this.

Quiet, is all I hear. It is not a nice quiet, but one that is growled out. One that threatens to stop this, whatever it is, if I’m not. I shouldn’t be here anyway.

This is not me, this is some poor ghost, who is committing a sin and is going to that place where these sorts of people go.

I think I could love him if he was dead. Then I could remember the handful of times he was nice to me, instead ofall of the everything else. And eventually, while all his bones are molded into the ground, that’s all there would be. This man who was nice to me, who I loved, this man with red hair.

Of course, that’s not how it is. He won’t die, no matter how much I wish he would.

I’m putting my shoes on when I gasp out,

This is sick. You know this is sick, right?

He doesn’t answer. He smokes another cigarette.

This is Hell.

6. To flow over completely

Dark green is becoming clouded now. Black. I don’t like black.

I wish I could remember what your face looked like because I’d think about it right now, and you’d know, you’d know you were the last thing I thought about. You’d feel it in your mess of guts. And you’d think about all those times you saw me and wouldn’t even walk on the same side of the street, or was that me? I didn’t love you though. Not really. I’m sure you understand.

It’s hard to remember much when you’ve been a ghost your whole life.

Author's Note:

Okay, two things. First off, I'm sorry that the formatting is all weird, but fictinopress doesn't like tabs/different fonts. Personally, I dislike how it's laid out now, but I didn't have much to work with. Secondly, this story is heavily influenced by William Faulkner's The sound and the Fury. Quentin was my favorite character and I kept on making up what I wanted to happen with him but didn't. Which isn't to say the nameless narrator in this is Quentin-he's definitely not. I like to imagine he read The Sound and the Fury though. So yeah, I love Faulkner.