Chasing Casey

Chapter Two

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The flame danced restlessly in front of me. I watched it, void of emotion. Eventually, I lit the end of the cigarette firmly planted in between my fingers. I inhaled, feeling the familiar sensation of smoke filling my lungs.

I hated smoking. Casey hated smoking. So, I did it. It was some sort of coping mechanism I'd adopted, that I didn't quite understand myself. I was so angry with him. I guess it was a way of punishment. My own personal 'screw you' to him for doing this to me.

It was almost 2am. There was a significant chill in the room that had me draped in one of Casey's sweaters. I hated him, but I couldn't deny that his clothes provided comfort and just something my own apparel couldn't. I guess it was just knowing they were his.

After he died, I went to his place. I took all his jumpers and shirts. I now wear them. Not in public, usually, but around my house. Mum thinks it's weird. It is, I guess. But seeing as I was 'in a state of deep depression', or so I'm told, I don't really give a shit. I can do what I want to make myself feel better.

I stared at the cigarette, hating myself for doing this. If Casey were here, he would drag me outside and drench me with a hose. He would sit me down, whilst my teeth would be chattering and my body engulfed in goose bumps and scold me for being stupid. His grandmother died of lung cancer. He took smoking very seriously. I used to as well.

Everything is different now.

I can't really describe what is happening. Casey's dead. I went to his funeral.

But he wasn't dead. How could he be, when he leaves me messages?

At first, I was convinced it was a sick joke. In response, I shut down all my social media and only ventured outside when necessary. But now, I'm not so sure. How would this sick, twisted individual hell-bent on torturing me, know these things? These personal, whispered secrets only Casey would know?

I wasn't scared. If anything, a new feeling of calm had settled over me. It was like knowing he was alive. Not with me, but somewhere. And that was enough to get me out of bed each day.

The messages had become dull, if I'm honest. They weren't as riddle-like. They weren't taunting me anymore. It was like he realised I'd given up.

After he died, or didn't, everything around me collapsed. I couldn't cope. We moved. I had to leave school. No one looked at me the same. Everyone knew some part of me died, too. I had a year off, going in and out of hospital for different things. After my third alcohol-related incident, my counselling sessions were upped and I was forced to return to school.

"You need to go out there, socialise, make some new friends," my mother urged. "Talking with others will do you a world of good, honey. You'll see."

I now was a part of Kingston High, forced to re-take my senior year with a bunch of strangers. It was nice to know that not every single person stared at me with sympathy. I had made a few friends. I didn't make much effort. Most people just thought I was weird.

Too quiet, too dark, too anti-social.

A few tried to get me to come out with them. Sometimes I just did because why not? Casey stole my life. It was time I needed to start living. Then I would go out, remember that I hate myself and everyone, and go back to my room where I would smoke in spite of myself and wait for a message from my dead best friend.

I'm not sure I even believed that it was him. That it was real. A part of me knew I was somewhat insane. But then I question; would someone insane question whether they are really insane? I don't know. It gets complex after that. My head starts to hurt and I stop thinking. I take some sleeping pills to let me pass out. Sometimes I can sleep alright, but that's only sometimes.