Last (40)

this is for:

Wilfreda Cabusas, for naming this novel

Peter Ortega, for his support

Julio Fuentes, for his wisdom

Prologue

My butt is burning like hell. I am sitting for nearly three hours of waiting my parents to claim their so-called crazy daughter, who see ghosts. I can compare the feeling of my burning butt to a long ride in an old bus just to have so freaking filed trip to see freaking large bird laying freaking gigantic egg like from those dinosaurs I’ve seen in National Geographic Channel when Doctor Doctors told Nurse 1 to let us see some educational show. Findings: boring.

 For seven years I’ve been here was like ages of mingling with freaks who claimed themselves as Gods and Saviors and some claimed that they’re the son of Jesus Christ. I don’t know why it took so long until I realized that I should go out from this terrible place. Maybe I preferred to live in a crazy world with a crazy life together with those crazy people than living together with those smart-ass friends who gave bad criticism to my stories I made, as if they’re better than Nicholas Sparks. They knew nothing but to look others mistakes. I hate my sexually active parents who seemed having marathon session and a weird guy whom I thought that he got some feelings for me.

 I stroke back my hair and try to act normal again. But who said I’m not normal?

“Them,” I whispered behind my improperly brushed teeth, as I saw my parents coming towards me with a smile on their faces.

 My burning butt traveled towards my knuckles and I am like ready to punch their freaking faces for putting me here.

 “How are you, Meg?” Father said, still having halitosis that creates a terrible smell in the room. I winced, and my nose was like ready to close its holes.

 “What do you think?”

 “Good?”

 “She’s good hon,” Mom said, who adapted my father’s super bad breath, “the doctor told us that you’re ready to go home after having several tests.”

 “I was ready before two of you brought me here.”

 “No, at that time you acted so strange. But now, I think you’re alright.”

 Oh really?

 Does that mean I can do math now?

 1+1= 2

2+2= 4

4-4= 0

 Zero. I feel nothing every time I see their faces. I tighten my fist, ready to make some bloods.

I cleared my throat, trying to smile. “What if I’ll tell you that I’m seeing ghost with a knife on her chest standing at your back? Wearing a pink tee shirt and jeans. Her name is Samantha. She died before you came here.”

 “Oh, my…”

 “Joke,” I snapped, but it was the truth.

 Before we go out from the Mental Hospital, I stopped to see the news on the TV.

 A girl was killed lately this morning; she got multiple stabs from a knife…

Samantha Underwood…

Suspect of the scene haven’t seen yet and still the policemen were finding the accused person until this moment…

Mom’s eyes widened. I smiled.