The Matron in White

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Some people believe loneliness is a bad thing. For me, loneliness is all I desire. Even when my eyes close i can still see a woman in front of me, standing ominously. I've become numb to the fact that nobody else can see her, putting on an impenetrable charade as to not frighten the normal, actual humans I interact with. I remember the first day I saw her, gazing at me from across the office. I thought my coworkers were playing a trick on me, until I realized that I really was the only one who could see her. I have nobody to tell my secret to. Not even my wife, who's been bedridden and despondent for God knows how long. Only at night, when I bury my face into the back of her flowing hair, do i get freedom from my secret stalker; my wife's lovely fragrance flooding my nostrils and clearing my head of all the problems I face when I'm forced to return to the normal world.

Somehow a look of disappointment and sadness decorates her white, blank eyes, despite a tight thin-lipped frown that never changes. She is short in stature; her petite frame making her appear childlike. Yet her gaze assures me she is much older than she looks. Hair as dark as the darkest floor of hell borders her forlorn face, framing a ghostly outline only matched in magnitude by the jagged cut across her throat. It's dry and disgusting slit painted with crimson red blood. She wears nothing but a plain white nightgown, making the slash across her throat as prominent as the moon in the night sky. Even when I can no longer see her, I can hear her labored breathing as air tries to make its way past the gash on her neck. Despite her scar and gloominess, the lady is still quite the looker. She reminds me of my wife in a way, minus the trademark sapphire eyes I fell in love with years ago. I just can't get enough of those eyes.

I pray for the following to stop someday as quickly as it started. I don't know why she follows me and I mean her no harm, yet she's always here. She must believe there is some way I can make amends for what happened to her, but I'll never know. Maybe if she'd just communicate with me, there wouldn't be a problem. There's nothing I hate more than when people don't listen. No one ever listens to me.

I wonder how long it will be until I finally give in. Each passing day, her presence becomes more and more unsettling. I could of sworn I heard her whimper ever so softly. A soft one, as if she were about to cry and trying desperately to hold back tears. I don't see the point in crying, and even the sound of it makes me nauseous. I have no sympathy for someone who's only form of coping is through spilling water out of their miserable eyes. Each stupid tear tasting of salt and staining what could be a much prettier face, if not for those gross, revolting streaks.

My stalker talked to me yesterday. Unless I'm now starting to hear things too. She either quietly asked "why" or wind blew threw an open crack at just the right time. My guess is she's asking me about the cut on her neck, like I should know the answer. I've always been annoyed by people asking questions. Especially when my answer gets nothing in return. I simply asked her what she meant and all I received was that same, idiotic stare. She's starting to ask "why" more and more. I liked it better when she didn't speak at all. Everything is more peaceful when everyone just shuts up.

I tried to touch her today. I took several steps towards her and she floated backwards just out of my reach. I continued forward for quite some time but she just kept levitating right out of my reach. God, how that pissed me off. Now I can see why she has that grotesque mark on her throat. Why ask me questions then ignore me and move away when all I want to do is help? I wouldn't be surprised if the slash on her neck was justified at this point.

I hate her with all my being. I think it's time I call the cops and let them take me to a mental hospital or handle this "ghost" in some other way. Every single time I try to approach her she backs away. I've noticed her pattern. She always floats towards my bedroom, as if she wants me to go to bed so I don't have to look at her damn hideous face anymore. I wish whoever hurt this person before could rewind time and hurt her again.

The police are here. They're in my living room, complaining about some smell and asking me questions, all while my dimwitted stalker hovers calmly right behind them. They don't believe what I'm saying, of course. I tell them that there's only one way to get rid of her and they play along and ask me how. I beckon for them to follow as I angrily make the same annoying trek to my bedroom that I constantly make, her taunting form staying just out of my reach. I let them know my wife is sleeping and to be quiet as I open the bedroom door and wave them in. They immediately tackle me to the floor and handcuff me. I have no idea what's going on as they move over to my sleeping wife and take the blankets off of her.

Around her is a pool of dry blood, urine, and feces. The smell must be repulsive as the police cover their noses, but I find the fragrance quite lovely. Her plain white nightgown is stained beyond recognition and a barbed laceration dances across her neck. One officer lifts her head up slightly, revealing her thin lips and grotesque white eyes, as if somebody sliced the cornea clean off. The other officer phones in some random codes and whines about a murder when I finally realize what's going on. I smile and laugh with more joy than I've ever had as they take that awful, vile corpse out of my bedroom, finally ridding me of that terrible inconvenience. I cackle with pure delight now. It feels so good to finally be alone.