Forever a Ghost ✓

Matthew C. Roberts

Guess what. I'm editing this. So yes, if you see updates, I'm only editing.

*EDITED*

Imagine being trapped in a house. There's no danger, no threat, no exact reason to hate it. You're just stuck there in that wretched house. Now, imagine being there for 14 gruesome years of boredom. There's no escape, no need to leave because you're not hungry or thirsty or even breathing anymore. You can't even leave anyway- you're hopelessly trapped. I know it seems oddly specific, but that's because it's the situation I've been stuck in. I'm sure you could have made that wild guess by now.

At first, I tried to ask for help. Too bad it scared people, right? I mean, imagine what they must have though; an invisible presence is desperately demanding help or just for someone to listen to them. Everyone ran away from me fairly quickly.

 After a year of searching for help in any way I could, whether it be from the people cleaning up the crime or a young couple moving into the house, I gave up and started to mess with people. Moving things with whatever strength I could, whispering ominous phrases. It was fun, I admit, it's always fun. I'm not even sure why I do it anymore, to be entertained by whatever I can? To feel something other than boredom or sadness or nothing at all?

It's sad. Every single time something new happens or someone new shows up, I always ruin it. It's like I can't help but scare them away, like I get high off of the thrill of something new. I always blow it, but the urge to scare them overpowers my constant loneliness. I'm far too used to the loneliness and far too unfamiliar with thrill.

I've tried everything. Everything to leave this. From trying to end it in any imaginable way possible- I learned I literally can't feel pain nor can I suffer any type of wound from this process- to simply trying to leave the house out of the front door. No matter what I do, it seems an invisible force keeps me in this house.

How do I pass the time? Reading, music. As far as I know, I have infinity, so might as well learn every Queen song on at least one instrument.

 But that gets old, too. Everything gets old.

 Moving things and touching things takes energy out of me quickly. I can only play piano so long before I feel I might actually die from exhaustion (which at that point I continue to play piano), but it takes nothing out of me to pass through walls and objects. 

It makes me wonder that if I had anything to look forward to, perhaps it wouldn't hurt so damn badly. I know I'm missing a lot in this life after death, like how I can't even feel anything, but perhaps I need that motivation in order for me to try harder. Or for the pain to subside.

I've experimented with what I can and can't do.

I can move light objects and stuff of that sort. I can also talk and people will hear, sing, and obviously play piano. The list goes on, but it's nowhere as substantial as what I could do when I was alive.

I can't leave this house, but I'm sure you know that already. Everyday my emotions become more distant from me, in fact, the only thing that makes me feel alive is scaring others nowadays. I can't die or suffer wounds, about the only physical thing I can feel is fatigue. I can't eat or drink anything. Lastly, I can't breathe.

In conclusion: don't ever be me. Yeah, I guess I don't really stress about unimportant things anymore or spend money, I guess I no longer feel pain, but I can't sleep away my problems anymore. I can barely do anything since I cause people to leave and the house won't have power again. I want to know so badly why I turned out like this. Why I can't just actually die. 

But it's hopeless, it's so very hopeless. 14 years gone, eternity to go. Thank God I hid all my books under the floorboards so nobody could take it. Thank God my piano was never touched by the previous owner two years ago and my electric guitar was stowed away in the attic. Thank God I'm able to figure out how to play every Queen song by ear because I have nothing better to do with my time.

But yet, here I am. A death wish ever so present with no hopes of it being fulfilled. My sanity draining away as I watch the world go by without me. 

So please, readers, kill me. Murder me like my father did 14 years ago. I don't care if I have to feel every single pierce into my skin with that knife glistening with my mother's blood. I don't care anymore, I just want this endless boredom to somehow end.