Ghost Challenge – Life is Terror
I am not very adept at creating supernatural thrillers, but the word "ghost" elicited a thought within me. The thought of being a ghost. No supernatural thought or shade, but true spiritual refuse. The following is my thoughts on being a ghost.
Life is Terror 850 words
Again I am accosted: the dream, nightmare, memory, the all too real pain of the past. I'm five years old again- naive and ignorant. Relishing the joy of my cognitive inefficiency. I'm smiling and pretending as if I'm flying. The wind from the window rushing over my hand. The yellow line along the pavement creating the effect of movement. Enthralled I stand on the seat.
It was my last summer before school started, and I was spending it with my grandparents. My nanny and papa. As young as I was I didn't realize that I was moving there and not simply visiting. Arbitrary in retrospect. There were a myriad of things I didn't know at that time. It was only in the dream that illumination struck.
My mother was drinking, and in my five year old state I had no inkling. The dreamer inside wanted to scream- knew what was coming. Again I was five years old pretending as if I were flying. Hand out the window standing in the front passenger seat. Staring out the window as the lines flew by. The luminescence of the flashers were a landing strip to me.
As intent as I was on pretending to fly- I should have noticed. The dreamer inside screams caution. Recognizes the deer up ahead. Screams for the child to notice and to warn my mom. Again I am five years old pretending as if I am flying. Oblivious to the coming assault. Wind flowing over my arm. The lines streaming past.
Too late my mom notices. I watch as the event transpires in slow motion. Eyes locked with those red blazing eyes of the creature. The screech of tires resound. A cacophony that freezes my heart. The deer disappears from my sight replaced by a ditch as my mom swerves. The dreamer screams to duck, to lie down, to do anything. Again I am five years old and this time I am flying.
Darkness descends. Pain explodes and a dull throb of numbness over takes my senses. Yet I have no senses. I try to open my eyes to no avail. Try to move any muscle in futility. I feel my lungs oxygenate of their own accord. The dreamer inside screams with panic. I'm five years old and I try to scream.
Tenuously sounds stream past my terror. Lamentations and cries of woe. Their words are incomprehensible to the five year old. The dreamer inside understands the levity. Words that make no sense surround the five year old. The dreamer tries to scream.
I am five years old and I recognize my family's voices. All morose and rife with tears. I try to open my eyes or move- to no avail. So many voices that I cannot understand. The dreamer hears words of prognosis: brain damage, coma, paralysis, and cries in horror. Again I am five years old and I want to scream.
Time blurs; voices assaulting me constantly. So far away and incomprehensible. Intermittently I try to move any muscle; again in vain. The dreamer hears the words that the five year old cannot comprehend. Hears the cries and discussions of pulling the plug. The dreamer tries to scream.
Again I am five years old and can only hear muffled voices. Reverberating all around. A ubiquitous sound of woe. Along the vibrations a single word emanates that the five year old knows. Die. Who is dying I wonder. Dying like Ziggy my hamster. Then I hear my name and amidst the fog my five year old self comprehends. Again I am five years old trying to move- in vain trying to scream.
Like a Sunday sermon I hear prayers. I cannot comprehend, but the woe has subsided. A resolute sadness has saturated the sounds. The dreamer tries to scream. Screams for the child to move, to let them know he is still alive. Screams for anyone to listen.
I am five years old and I hear silence. I try to move in vain. Slowly I feel my lungs cease to move. I hear cries like never before. The word I know circles my head. Die. Die. Die. I try to scream. I try to move. Slowly I am fading. The dreamer screams. Again I am five years old and I try to scream.
I startle awake drenched in sweat with a scream upon my lips. A loquacious cry of misery. I ceased it abruptly. Years had taught me to keep my screams in abeyance. The fear hits me that I am five years old hearing the words. Hearing the decree of damnation. Brain damage to never speak again, paralysis to never walk again, living a cursed existence.
Slowly realization dawns. I try to move each muscle slowly and grow ecstatic as they respond. Deftly I rise and flip on my lamp. Grabbing the dictionary by my nightstand I flip it open. Finding a word I slowly sound it out. Ever so slowly the word escapes my lips. I persevere and recite more and more. Satisfied that I can speak I rise from the bed and begin to walk. No sleep shall come this night.
I'd rather feel the prick of a thorn than smell the sweetness of a rose...