Submerge

G H O S T

M A S O N

The days grew shorter, and the air took on a chill that seemed to seep into my bones. It was as if the world itself was preparing for the anniversary, the anniversary that would mark two years since Emma 's death. My sister's memory loomed over me like a relentless storm cloud, darkening even the brightest moments.

Each morning, I would drag myself out of bed, the weight of exhaustion clinging to my every limb. My nights were haunted by relentless nightmares, tormenting visions that refused to release their grip on my mind. 

I would wake up, my heart pounding, my body drenched in sweat, and for a brief, disorienting moment, I would forget where I was.

The world outside my window had taken on a muted, gray quality, mirroring the desolation within me. The leaves on the trees had withered, and the air had grown cold, as if nature itself mourned the impending anniversary.

My daily existence had become a fragile façade. The exhaustion from my sleepless nights seeped into every facet of my life. I found myself struggling to stay awake during class, my eyelids heavy with the weight of unshed tears.

My teachers had taken notice, their concerned glances following me like a shadow. They would approach me after class, offering gentle inquiries and well-intentioned advice. But their words fell on deaf ears. How could I explain the torment I faced each night, the demons that whispered in my ear, convincing me that I was responsible for my sister's death?

Ethan and Mia's worry had deepened into a palpable concern. They cornered me during lunch, their expressions a mix of compassion and frustration.

"Mason, you're not okay," Ethan said, his voice filled with genuine worry. "You're not sleeping, you're barely eating." Mia nodded in agreement, her eyes pleading. "We're here for you, Mason. But you need to let us in."

I wanted to confide in them, to share the darkness that had consumed me, but the words remained trapped within, locked away by shame and fear.

My anxiety had become an ever-present companion, a weight that clung to me like a shroud. It was no longer a dull ache but a sharp, piercing pain that manifested physically. My hands trembled, my palms slick with sweat, and my heart raced at the slightest provocation.

Eating had become a struggle of its own. Food lost its appeal, its taste dulled by the numbness that had settled over me. I had no appetite, and when I did force myself to eat, it felt like I was consuming cardboard. It was as if the flavors of the world had faded away, leaving behind only a monotone existence.

The facade I had built, the mask I wore to face the world, was slowly cracking. It was a fragile veneer that concealed the storm raging within. I withdrew from those who cared about me, creating a distance that grew with each passing day. I couldn't bear to burden them with my pain, to watch as their concern deepened into despair.

And then, in my darkest moments, I found solace in a familiar companion – the bottle.

Alcohol had been my refuge in the past, a temporary escape from the demons that haunted me. It had provided a respite from the torment, a way to numb the pain. And now, as the anniversary of my sister's death approached, the allure of that escape became too powerful to resist.

I began to drink in secret, hiding bottles of liquor in the depths of my closet, away from prying eyes. Each sip was a descent into oblivion, a fleeting reprieve from the anguish that consumed me. The warmth of the alcohol coursed through my veins, momentarily silencing the relentless cacophony of my thoughts.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across my room, I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands trembling as I clutched my hair. The darkness was closing in, suffocating me, and I couldn't bear it any longer.

In a moment of desperation, I reached for the small bottle tucked away in my drawer the bottle that held a familiar, deceptive comfort. It was a temporary respite, a fleeting escape from the relentless storm that raged within me. 

As the liquid burned its way down my throat, I felt a familiar numbness wash over me, a brief reprieve from the anguish that had become my constant companion. 

But even in my drunken haze, I couldn't escape the knowledge that I was spiraling further into darkness. The bottle had become my crutch, my only means of coping with the demons that haunted me.

One night, as I lay in bed, the room shrouded in darkness, I heard a soft creaking sound from the hallway. My heart leaped to my throat, and I sat up, straining to listen. The sound came again, a slow, deliberate creaking.

I stumbled toward my bed, my movements unsteady and sluggish. The room spun around me, as I lay in bed, the room shrouded in darkness, I heard a soft creaking sound from the hallway. My heart leaped to my throat, and I sat up, straining to listen. The sound came again, a slow, deliberate creaking.

With a sense of dread, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and tiptoed to the door. The hallway was dimly lit by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. And there, at the end of the hall, I saw her—a figure, barely more than a shadow, standing by the window.

"Emma ?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

The figure turned slowly, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the familiar sparkle in her eyes. But then the illusion shattered, and I realized that it wasn't her. It was just my mind playing tricks on me, conjuring phantoms from the depths of my grief.

I approached the figure cautiously, my heart still racing. As I drew closer, I saw that it was a simple coat rack, its silhouette distorted by the moonlight. The creaking had been the result of a draft from the window.

I sank to my knees, a sob escaping me. I missed her so much that it hurt, an ache that seemed to have no end. I longed to hear her laughter, to see her smile, to tell her all the things I had never said.