On September 2, 1901, they cut me downfrom the rafters. Hands cold, face still with a residual of red fromthe struggle before I passed, and a band of bruises around my neckfrom where the rope laid. Although I couldn't see, I would bet thatmy eyes were bloodshot and dark as ice is cold.
After they took my body, it took me awhole 'nother minute to be able to tear my eyes from the spot wheremy body once hung. Once I finally did, my brain started racing,realizing what I actually was. A spirit. As I paced through thehalls, I couldn't help but let my mind drift through the reasons whyI would be stuck here, so far from my body.
What was my reason for staying here?
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As soon as that thought passes throughmy head, I felt as though I was being pulled apart and put backtogether again. It wasn't painful, but it felt very odd, veryunnatural. But I guess I myself am very unnatural.
I begun to see the colors around mefade. With that, these colors quickly changed into a whole new scene.I was now standing in a dark alleyway, the walls covered with dirtand grime, and a few pieces of trash scattered around the place. Igave myself a lot of time, allowed myself to take everything in fromthe area around me. It was once I turned away, from the bustlingpeople running down the busy street, that I saw him there. A youngman, probably no more than 17, sat with a gun in his hand.
I slowly walked over to the boy,reaching him just as he raised the gun. Out of habit, I flinched,thinking I still had a body to be worried about. It then became veryobvious to me that he couldn't see me. As he lowered the gun, Ireally began wondering why I was here. Until he raised the gun tounder his chin, cocking the pin of the revolver. It was then that Iquickly put my hand on his shoulder, and to my surprise, he lowersthe gun into his lap. His tears slowed and came to an eventual stop.He lurched up from against the wall.
With sobs still trying to raisethemselves from his chest, he pushed himself up off of the dirtcovered ground and in a brisk walk, he left the place.
Once again the colors surrounded me,dropping me off in the next place that a poor, lost soul would beoccupying. This cycle went on for what seemed like multipleeternities. I felt as though I had seen every possible way of someonetrying to destroy themselves. From a blade to a gun to a rope. To thepoint where someone was so desperate for the end that they viciouslyflung themselves at the water, willing the river to take themwherever they were supposed to go.
That is the one that broke me, the onethat got away. Despite all the countless lives I had saved thus far,none of those compared to the pain and the guilt of losing that oneyoung girl.
I had found a way to resist thetransportation, to stay where I wanted for a while. I paced for days,walking streets, apartment buildings, until I stumbled across her's.He room was cluttered, boxes of her belongings stacked along thebaseboards. There were sketches and writings pinned up, covering herwall. Drawings of a beautiful man and a beautiful woman. All that wasleft in the room other than the boxes and the papers was an openjournal on the side of her bed. After flipping through this book, Ifound her reasoning. That is all I wanted to know, why she had doneit.
She was a writer who had lost hermuse. The adventure had left her. Greenish brown eyes, black hair,and a soul that raged with fire. This man had left, walked away fromher as though she was nothing. This alone was not enough to cause herto hurl herself into the beyond. It was only when she realized thatwithout him, she was not her, that she could not write anymore, thatshe started planning her horrid end. I further learned about herplanning and her personality. From the beginning there were smallthings, indicating her obsession with the idea of drowning. How thewater would feel surrounding her, how the water would feel completelyoccupying her lungs, how it would feel to fade.
