The dreary, dark, dead grey clouds hung from the phantasmagoria azure painted-like sky. I walked along the sidewalk, which was layered in the gray-white ash of my high school. The fence, which used to be covered with roses, securing our school, was slowly rusting away. The burnt remains of my school, which was surrounded by dermestidae and shattered glass that glistened even though there was no sun blaring above. The only structure that was standing up on its own was the set of swings, which Jane and I had always played and talked on—she was the girl I fell in love with, who vanished from this world, without saying good-bye or leaving a sign. She just disappeared.
Something caught my eye. The black rubber swing was swinging back and forth as if someone was on it, but no trace of whom. I felt a strong, sad, suffocating energy, which pulled me closer to the swing. When I looked closer, I could see a faint outline of a girl who was on the swing. The girl seemed familiar––her sleek auburn hair––her honey brown eyes––her pale skin with cuts and scars––her rosy red dress––her bare feet––thoughts of her flooded through my mind and finally it latched onto a name: Jane. She sat there, moving her pale, freckled, bare feet through the bloodstained sand. I called her name, and she stared at me with her haunting honey eyes.
“Tom,” she spoke in a faint voice. She looked so real, and when I went to touch her, my fingers slid through her moon-like spectral body. Questions permeated through my consciousness with thoughts of how she died or when she did, or who had hurt her. My thoughts violently battled against my skull, causing me to shriek in pain, almost throwing myself forward and falling straight into the swing.
There was a fire she said, on a Friday night she had snuck into school, wanting to finish her painting of the raven picking at a dead carcass in the forest, which was a gift she wanted to bestow to me the following day because it was my birthday. She had been wearing her headphones while she carefully dabbed the canvas with water, washing away the mistakes. As she painted, she could smell smoke in the distant. When she realized, it was already too late. The conflagration had grown bigger and bigger and crawled its way around the arts room like a serpent, trapping her inside with no way out. She had rushed to the door, shaking it vigorously, which scarred her hand, causing her to wail and collapse to the ground. The skin—her scars dug deep where you could see her veins, the sizzling burning flesh, the holes of oozing blood. She had dragged her body to the left side of the room––leaving handprints on the floor––bumping her head into the easels––getting pins and nails stuck in her legs and arms––reaching for the windowpane almost free, but she was smothered by the pungent and strong acrid smoke, and lost consciousness, letting the fire overcome and swallow her. She could remember seeing her body on the floor while she rose up into the air. Her disembodied tries to leave the wrecked high school, and almost stepped out of the building, when a wall pushed her back into the chards of remains, locking her in.
On that bitter, lonely, depressing morning, after the burning, police, nurses and news reporters stood around the building, checking for the rotting flesh or bleeding soul of anyone. They never found her body because it was under all the bricks and was compressed into the ground. She started waiting for anyone to find her body. To the point it seemed like no one was even going to try, she floated to the swings and cried, singing her feelings away.
Her tears streamed down her face as the shocking story started to creep its way into my head. A strong force brought me back to that Friday night where I was with a group of my friends. We were all drunk with our mind in a haze, unclear of why we were outside of the high school. The licorice black haired boy chuckled and stumbled as he pulled out a pack of sinister cigarettes and asked me for a light. I grabbed my box of matches out of my coat pocket and lit one for him and one for myself; then I dropped the burnt match. The night was so peaceful like the world was empty and dead. There was no moon that night, so we stood in almost complete darkness. I watched as the ash fell and touched the ground, but what I didn’t notice was when I had threw the cigarette to the ground, it ignited the box of matches, and with my back turned away.
I looked at her, watching her pour out as if she was going to drown in her own. The cold shock hit me hard and didn’t know how to tell her. I wanted to, but the fear of her hating me forever would crush me even more it would when she left with no trace. I pondered for a long and stressful while, and then approached her looking her straight through her undead eyes. I took a deep breath, knowing what I was going to saw next might cost me my life, but not telling her would haunt me the rest of my life. The moment, the words left my mouth, she was quiet. She stood up from her swing and looked at my frightened face.
I thought she was going to forgive when she opened her mouth. I fell back, holding my throat, gasping for air. A malevolent smile appeared on her face, happy to know that her killer was standing before her. The memory of our love had been washed away by the hate she held for me. She bent down, reached for the matches in my pocket and lit a match, and let me burn.
