Sight For the Dead

April 18, 2012
By Derpyork BRONZE, Estero, Florida
Derpyork BRONZE, Estero, Florida
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"One does not simply walk into Mordor."
-The Fellowship of the Ring

Monet walked quietly amongst herself in the prisons long dark corridor filled with snickering and cackling victims. They stared at her with big, luminous eyes of every shape and a vast array of colors. Shades with tints of blue, green, brown, and hazel. By now she was used to the unwanted attention, she mainly brought it amongst herself of course. Every day to school she wore black ripped jeans and a black hoodie, a white t-shirt, only to be completed by black slip on vans. It was a comfortable apparel and she didn’t see why any of her other classmates wore it but her. She was her own company everywhere, even these hallways. She had to fend for herself against the Vera-Bradley-Areo-Postale-Hollister-wearing simpletons that choose to mock her every move as if she was the one who was wrong. In fact, Monet was perfectly normal, well to herself she was. Yeah, she could see dead people and talk to them, but it was not a big deal. And that un-doubtfully was what got her into this mess.

As you can tell, Monet is not you’re average 9th grader. Not only excelling in all subjects except sports, she had the absolutely extraordinary gift, and curse, to see, hear, and communicate with the dead. She was not a ghost whisperer or a ghost hunter or wanted to sell herself to fame, in fact, she barely ever helped any of them. It’s stereotypical that anyone who receives the awesome gift is some kind of hero sent to make peace with everyone, well truthfully and sadly, that was utterly and completely impossible! The fact of the matter was, seeing ghosts is one of the most obnoxious things, ever. Oh, and another thing is that smelling is another thing that comes along with her ‘delightful’ gift, as you will. Imagine this, everyday intoxicated with the smells of decaying flesh in your nose, not even Fabreze helps this situation. And there is not a single thing you can do it about.
Now Monet was quite accustomed to seeing and hearing, and even smelling spirits, but there was one that always made her skin crawl and sent a shiver down her spine. It followed her everywhere. Not only was it obnoxiously clingy, but it was distracting; its emaciated and skeletal body was undeniably disturbing. Its cloudy skin hung on its bones, and it’s arms withdrawing around it’s small body. Instead of a head, it had a slab of skin where the neck should be. It was spastic and twitchy and often teleported from one place to another to occupy her vision. Sometimes it appeared in different positions, crouched up against it’s self or in the fetal position. It seemed as if it never intentionally tried to scare her, but it did anyways. She sensed its lust to become her master, for her to become its pawn. Monet sensed that it wanted to touch her, to live again (if it ever had.) To feel her warm flesh and the red blood that surged through her veins. She felt it’s rejection from other beings, it’s want for revenge. Still, she wasn’t sure why it had chosen her. Maybe it was her gift to see it? Maybe it was because she wasn’t like the others it may have once associated with it that rejected it? Questions like this always hung in Monet’s mind, spooking her.
Monet started to see it a few times a few years ago but thought nothing of it because she thought it was like all others. Then it started appearing in her dreams, haunting her every night and only allowing her to get a maximum of three hours of sleep. She was in her room, except it was much bigger and everything was out of proportion. It was dark and there were windows on every side. The spirit appeared in different positions and places around her room or outside or beside her. She was trapped in her bed and couldn’t move, forced to observe it’s every move. It felt like she was tied by something and couldn’t will her body to move, only her head to see what it was doing. All she heard was static and the occasional whisper. She smelt cleaning antiseptic or what you smell when you enter a hospital. The dreams lasted no more than an hour at the most and always woke up with beads of sweat at her brow and clutching her bed sheets.
After a few weeks of this reoccurrence, Monet tried looking up solutions to her nightmares. She found nothing on the topic and that stressed her out more than anything. She wanted to know what it was, why it wanted her, and why it visited her in her dreams and followed her everywhere. Now this may sound unusual, (but what about her life isn’t?) Monet knew every name of every demon in any religion and this spirit didn’t fit any of their descriptions. She knew that sometimes having reoccurring dreams lead to perhaps a deeper meaning, but she couldn’t think of anything good that would come out of this. So, as usual, she learned to cope with it and it became something of her everyday life. But one day, she realized that by getting somewhat comfortable with it was not the best idea.
Slowly she became aware that it was getting closer to her by letting her guard down she was slowly becoming it’s pawn. Monet didn’t realize it at first, but she was doing things that weren’t even normal for her. Awful headaches every night and her body cramping causing her to twitch. Normally, she kept to herself at school and went straight home afterwards, but now she had a new cycle. She would glare at other students and teachers and sometimes have either a pained or a disturbing smile plastered on her face. Her homework was incomplete and her grades slowly dropping. She always felt angry or uncomfortable and ended up hugging herself just like the figure in her nightmares. Her appetite slowly disintegrated to the point where she barely ate, only the necessities to keep herself alive. Soon enough she was becoming the spirit, it had consumed her life, and it had consumed her. The only things Monet could do herself were use the restroom, dress her-self, and maintain a clean body; everything else was out of her reach. Her communication skills had deteriorated; she no longer excelled in school, and was barely even a student anymore. She skipped school on a regular basis and stayed home in her room, which had all the windows blocked off and was a mess.
As you can see, the spirit that haunted her was slowly overcoming Monet’s life, but she needed to try and end it. She was aware of what was going on, and she knew she had a slight chance of stopping it, so she devised a plan that was almost foolproof. Monet had to say goodbye to everything and end her existence, thus freeing her-self from the spirits domination of her body. She was well aware that none would care if she were gone. Committed to her decision, Monet prepared over the next few days, finding a place where none would find her, and finding a painless way of letting go.
That coming Thursday Monet ventured to an old graveyard out of town that she went to when she was younger as a quite place to think. She sat down in the wilted and half dead grass and wrapped her arms around her skinny legs. She breathed in and out very slowly, calming her-self. Monet pulled a handcrafted obsidian dagger, spinning it in her fingers for a while. She gripped both oh her clammy palms around the handle, tip pointing at a main artery in her chest. She took a deep breathe and trusted through her pale skin, carving a whole in her chest. Her ears rang and her whole body started to become cold. Monet looked down at her hands covered in warm, red blood that was pouring out of her wound.
Monet knew she wouldn’t live much longer when her vision became fuzzy, but she could feel the spirit finally leaving her. She saw it slowly materialize in front of her shaking with rage. This time, she had won. She was no longer a pawn of terrible spirit. She was no longer being held prisoner in her own body. Taking what she knew would be her final breath, Monet felt an enormous weight lifted of her chest. It was over, all the pain, all the suffering. Over. Forever. She laid back, letting the darkness and soothingness of death take over her body. “Goodbye.” she whispered into and closed her eyes.
Monet walked quietly amongst herself in the prisons long dark corridor filled with snickering and cackling victims. They gazed at each other with big, luminous eyes of every shape and a vast array of colors. Shades and tints of blue, green, brown and hazel. By now she was used to not being seen.

The End.

The author's comments:
My sister had a nightmare about something similar to this so i wrote about it to freak her out.

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