All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Don't Kill Me Now
I could see him, but no one else could. I could tell that they couldn’t, because if they had, they wouldn’t still be laughing, drinking, and acting as if there wasn’t a care in te world. I was the only one that could see him. I stopped laughing, put my drink on the counter, and stared at him; the blonde boy with bright green eyes.
He was standing there, looking at me, in mangled clothes, barefoot. His shirt was ripped from the armpit all the way down, on the left side. There were numerous holes in it. His cargo shorts looked like they had been through a shredder, but were still somewhat wearable. There was nothing on his feet, but it looked like he’d just witnessed a messy murder and got blood all over his legs and feet. Although, when I looked behind him, from the direction he must have come, there was no blood on the off-white carpet.
We just stared at one another, each knowing that only I could see him. At first he seemed a little reluctant on communicating any further. But then I saw the corners of his mouth turn up, almost in a smile.
He didn’t speak.
Could he speak?
Obviously, he was a ghost of some sort…could he be heard, though? And how was it that I could see him?
In the midst of my frantic thoughts on this beautiful, but frightening creature, he nodded his head towards the door: apparently indicating for me to follow him.
“Umm, hey, you guys, I don’t think I should drive home. I’m going to go call my sister to come get me,” I said to my friends, or rather the people who considered themselves my friends, but really they were only the people I drank with.
Sasha, the flamboyant redhead, yelled (although there was no need, she was two seats away from me at the round table we were sitting at), to me “Hey, Claire! Don’t go yet! The party has just begun!” If the party just begun, they were in for a long night, and a painful morning. She laughed a trilling laugh. She was so loud, even when she wasn’t drunk.
The rest of the group joined in, laughing, screeching, and yelling “Don’t go Claire! Don’t go Claire! The party’s just begun, Claire!”
At the rate these guys were babbling on, and the fact that I was with them the whole time, you would probably think to yourself, She probably didn’t even see that guy; she’s just as drunk as the others. That wasn’t the case, though. For some reason, today didn’t feel right. I only had a couple of drinks, I was too deep in thought the whole night to let loose with those imbeciles.
I left them howling, to follow the beautiful blonde boy out the door, and found him waiting for me at the corner of the road, sitting on the curb. Apparently he knew he was dead; no sane person that was alive would sit on the curb of the road in this part of town, on this specific road, especially.
“I’m not going to sit there,” I said as I approached him. I didn’t know if he could hear me, but he must, because he is the one that wanted me out here. But had he done this before? Did he even know if he would be able to hear me? Or I, him? I didn’t know.
He looked up, and I knew he could hear me.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice stunning. Not only because I didn’t think I’d be able to hear him, but because it was so sweet, so smooth, so soft, like a piece of caramel in my mouth. Or like melancholy lyrics playing through my headphones into my ears, making me smile at lost memories. “What took you so long?” He got to his feet, and came near me.
“Umm, maybe drunken friends that are insistent I get as drunk as them?”
“Why do you do that, Claire? Don’t you know it’s bad for you? You’re only sixteen. You have your whole life ahead of you.” First, how did he know my name? Second, how did he know my age? The third question, though, was a little more obvious (how did he know I drank), considering the first time he saw me, I had a beer in my hand. But, really, one beer here and there won’t do much harm. He couldn’t have known that it wasn’t only one beer here and there, for me. Besides, he didn’t look like he could be much older than me; 18, maybe 19. He had to have had a few drinks here and there, himself.
“How do you know my name?” I asked him. “Or my age? How do you know anything about me?”
“I’m not quite sure, I haven’t been this way very long so I haven’t figured much out yet, but somehow, I just know. I also know that you’ve been an alcoholic since you were 12. You really should stop that Claire. Live your life while you can,” he said.
I sat down in the grass beside the sidewalk, and looked around to see if anyone was out here, watching me talk to thin air.
“I am living. Anyways, where did you come from? What happened to your clothes? Why am I the only one that can see you?”
He looked upset that the subject had changed.
“I came from over there,” he pointed down the road, where two cars sat, smashed together at the intersection of two roads. There were two police cars, a fire truck, and two ambulance trucks.
How I didn’t see the lights before he pointed it out, I didn’t know either. It seemed I didn’t know a lot of things at this point.
He continued, “Obviously, I was in a car wreck. You would think, since I’m a ghost or whatever you want to call it, I wouldn’t wearing the same clothes I died in, but a long white gown like everyone says. Sadly, though, I’m not in a long white dress, but in torn up clothes that I died in; bummer. That will be a pleasant memory to keep forever.” He smiled. “And for the last question, it probably has something to do with when you were a baby. Since you died when you were a baby, you’ve probably carried that gift with you, the ability to see…dead people.” He laughed at his lame joke. But I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t die when I was a baby…and I’d never seen ‘dead people’ before either. “Oh. You didn’t know, did you?”
He must have been able to read it on my face.
“No. It’s not true. I didn’t die when I was a baby, obviously. I’m here, like, I’m actually here, people can see me.”
“They were able to revive you. They won’t be able to revive me. Trust me, I saw what I looked like.” He laughed again.
Okay, this might just be me, but if I had just died, and I knew I was dead, I wouldn’t be making jokes quite yet, and I definitely wouldn’t be that calm.
“Alright, well, let’s say that makes sense. Still, I’ve never seen people like you before. Why now?”
“Yes, you have. You just didn’t pay any attention before. The pull wasn’t as hard to them, because you didn’t have much in common.” He flashed a bright, heart-stopping smile at me.
“And what have you and I got in common? What makes your pull stronger?”
“Well, to begin with, we both have, or in my case had, poor excuses as parents. And also, I’ve been an alcoholic for 6 years, since I was 12.”
See, I told you he had to have had a few drinks, a little more than a few though, it sounds like. But what right did he have, telling me how to live my life, when he was the same way?
“Don’t talk about my parents; you don’t know them. And I find it amazing that you were just telling me how to live my life when it came to drinking, and as it turns out, you did it too! Typical, people trying to tell me what to do, that have no room to talk. Look at you! You’re dead, if you haven’t noticed!” I screamed at him, with a sudden hatred for putting his nose where it didn’t belong; in my life.
After I said it though, and saw the hurt expression on his face, I automatically wished to take it back.
He finally spoke, after a long, awkward silence.
“I know that I’m dead, and you will be too, if you keep it up. Trust me. Can you really see me? Because this is what you’ll look like, if not worse. I’m dead, because of me. Because I didn’t handle my problems how I should have, I got drunk, jumped in a car, and ran a stop sign, right into another car.
“There were always people asking me, checking on me, to see if I was okay, and instead of talking to one of them, I downed another bottle of beer. My father was always the one that gave it to me, too.” He laughed with no humor what-so-ever.
I heard someone stumble out the door of the house, and fall down. I didn’t even look up to see who it was, or if they were okay. I kept looking at the ghost I was having a conversation with, and whose name I didn’t even know. I thought about what my life had become, and what it was becoming. To me, every night was a constant party. The party never stopped. But within me…I knew it was just a getaway. My parents divorced when I was 6. They constantly fought, physically, verbally, and emotionally. I was always the witness, me and my older sister by 1 year and 4 months, Andrea.
We went through custody battle, after custody battle, but the results were always the same; my mother, the drunk, and physically abusive, but nobody noticed, always got primary custody, while my father, the pot head, and dead beat, only got visitation once every month.
I had to live with the psychotic mother every day of my life. When she hit me, I took it without a sound. When she was drunk, I stole a few and ran to my room. My sister always stayed in her room for the most part. She never even tried one of our mom’s beers that I knew of. She got hit just as much as I did, and she ignored it as much too, if not better.
My father didn’t have a job, he was on Welfare from the day he turned eighteen. He smoked cocaine on a regular basis, and was verbally abusive when he was high, but I would have rather lived with him any day of my life; that just shows how much System really cares.
My mother was still an alcoholic, but I think since Andrea started playing sports, and I was never home, she grew tired and scared of the two of us; hasn’t laid a hand on either of us since Andrea was a freshman in high school.
My dad though, he died from an overdose when I was 12. Although he was never really a dad to me, that affected me in a terrible, huge way. I began heavy drinking, to get rid of the pain I felt from my parents, the hatred I felt from my schoolmates, the abandonment I felt from my sister, and the disappointment I felt in myself.
I snapped back to life when I heard the person on the porch puking up their guts.
“I’ll be right back,” I whispered to Ghost Boy.
I got up and ran over to the porch, to check on the girl that sat there, hair in her face, puke on her mouth, and mumbling something like “I got to stop doing that”.
I didn’t recognize the girl, but I asked her if she was okay. She nodded slightly, so I asked her if there was anyone I could call to give her a ride home. She shook her head, and mumbled something I could barely make out to be “on her way”. So, I told her if she needed me, I’d be over at the stop sign, and I went back to where Ghost Boy was sitting, looking down the street at where his body lay on the ground in a body bad.
I saw beside him.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
Eric, I thought.
“What were you think about, before you left?” He asked me.
“Why I am the way I am.”
“You’re not the way you are. You’re completely different. You just haven’t found that yet.” He still wasn’t looking at me, but I looked at him. When I didn’t reply, he looked away from the wreck, to finally gaze into my eyes.
When he did that, I felt something strong pull me towards him, like the whole universe shifted. I didn’t notice before how shockingly beautiful he really was. I wasn’t one of those things you can explain to someone. His skin was fair and even, his face hard, but kind. He reminded me of a rose. Beautiful, a meaning of love, but still protected when it came to being hurt. His eyes were a green that can’t be explained. There isn’t a name for this color of green. He had full eyelashes, a shade darker than his beautiful blonde hair.
I reached my hand out to touch his and wasn’t completely stunned when I could feel it under my hand. It looked like he was though, like someone had just shocked him with a taser.
He reached his other hand up to cup my face.
“You’re beautiful, Claire,” he said. I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I’d never been called beautiful before. I was average sized, but when it came to looks, it wasn’t me you were looking for. Long, curly black hair, that never stayed tamed. Big, brown eyes that looked stoned all the time. My upper lip was half the size of my lower. What he said didn’t make sense to me. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise, even yourself.”
He leaned in to me, to gently kiss me on the lips.
The sensation I felt when he did that, is nothing I can describe; unbelievable, indescribable, pure joy. It felt like his lips were formed to match mine, like a puzzle; they were made specifically for me.
When he relinquished me, we both looked towards the wreck again. I felt his hand slide out from under mine, and when I looked to see where it went, he was walking away from me, towards his body. He made the two-block walk in only a few seconds. I saw him lie down beside himself, and scoot himself over, into his body.
I ran as fast as I could, over to where he lay, and stared at his beaten up face. He had black and blue bruises covering his entire face. His neck was a deep purple.
When I looked at his unmoving chest, I felt my own chest tighten, and my heart sank.
A cop came over to me, with a worried look on his face, wishing I hadn’t seen what I had.
“Can I help you with something, Hun?” he asked, like he cared as much for me as he would his own daughter. I looked back down at Eric. I started with his eyes, down to his obviously broken nose, to his purple, frozen lips. Then down to his broken neck. When I got to his chest again, I blinked.
It was moving.
He was breathing.
“HE’S BREATHING!” I shouted, I screeched, I screamed, a blood-curdling, death scream, frightened to no end. “HE’S BREATHING!” I pushed the cop forwards, toward Eric, frantic. “Save him! Save him! Please,” I cried, quieter, helpless. “Please, save him. I need you to save him.
“I love him.”