I can still see those small hands in front of me, the bones piercing the skin like javelins. A delicate face bruised and with a mangled eye hanging from its socket. Could this be human? But then it spoke “Am I alive?”
Those hands are so familiar, if only I could remember why? Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see dark blood flowing from its open wounds. It is fighting back at something, but can't breathe; its injuries must have been worse than I thought, it kept coughing, at times it even threw up a little, a red-stained vomit.
I think there was a tap dripping behind me, it had a relentless pace. It seemed to get louder and louder, forcing itself into my mind like a hammer pounding on an anvil. It's strange how this tiny sound seems so much worse than the others. Not the door slamming behind me, not the glass breaking as her arm went through the window, not the thud as the kitchen iron hit flesh.
Most nights I lie awake at night, waiting for it to come. And it always does, dragging itself by one arm across the floor until it reaches my bed. The stench of decay gets stronger as it comes closer. It stares up at me and always it says those words. “Am I alive?”
The doctor say writing stuff down will help me. I doubt it. I'm sure if she could she'd open my skull, just to see what's in there. I can see it in her eyes. I've told her about the woman, asked her to protect me. All she says is “but she wasn't just any woman, was she? It's clear we've got a long road ahead”. I don't remember, but I know her ghost will never leave.
By ZeLee
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