I'm not alone in this house.
People think I live alone. They say they worry about me because they think I'm so young.
I'm not so young either.
People don't hear the spirits I live with; so they can't understand. Mother told me so.
People tell me that Mother is gone. They don't say she's dead, just gone. Mother is dead, but she isn't gone.
Not yet.
I bought milk at the cornerstore today. The boy at the counter watches me. He's always watching me when I'm in the store.
"Hello, how are you?" he asks
I tell him I'm OK. Everyone knows I'm a liar, but they never say it out loud.
"Have a good day," he calls after me as I leave. It's always the same.
Every day is the same to me.
They all pass by. The same people talking to me. The same answers. The same questions.
It makes me sick.
It makes me go home and throw up in the sink and then go to sleep on the kitchen floor.
This house is so big.
Too big for only me people say, but I know I'm not alone.
It only feels empty because its so big.

I have to work tomorrow.
I have to wake up tomorrow.