Life is something I will always regret not living. Born in 1943 and met a tragic and lonely end in March of 1960. Only 23 years on this earth; This earth that I had took for granted. I would wake each day, untethered and adrift, for sleep gave no sanctuary. My eyes closed in emptiness until morning pulls my eyes open once more. The toothpaste on my brush, the warmth of morning coffee—they carried no spark, no meaning. They were shadows of what they should have been, tasteless echoes of a life I failed to savor. I took it all for granted, that fragile, fleeting gift of existence. Only now, in this overpowering silence, do I feel the weight of what I let slip through my hands.
I wonder, truly with no purpose, everyday in this humble dwelling where I had met my end. For five years—five years I have wondered and dreamed of what could have been. I have seen my body removed from this home, the police clean up the blood splatters from the beige colored walls and the chestnut floors. I now feel hopeless, more than I ever did when my heart would beat in my chest. The hopelessness sailed one day when a young woman, who looked to be my age, moved into my past home.
Susie—her name was Susie. Such a beautiful name. I assumed she understood what has taken place between these walls, as she looks around in sadness and mourning, a silent prayer exiting her lips as she sets her bags down. I stare at her from the corner of the room; She looks around and a faint—very faint—smile graces her lips. I cannot be seen, for I am not there. Her eyes look right at mines and yet they continue to roam as if she simply looked at a wall—which she has.
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Months pass. Her presence has brought me both sadness and a strange sense of hope and relief. The once dreary house has become a beacon of sunshine, her love of yellow seen on each wall as well as her spirit. Friends and family of Susie visit regularly, praises and love given to her while they all laugh and talk about the days ahead. Oh what I would do to get it back. I have given her a nickname: Little Miss Someone. Someone who is loved and has a bright future ahead of her. Someone who never lives a day without appreciation.
Her smile as she sleeps contrast my frown; Life is good for her, no—life isn't any better or worse than it was for me. I had friends and family, people that loved me. The difference between her and I is simply how we view life. She too could brutally die, in a manner like I did, and I have no doubt that she would have no regrets in her life. Her last breath would be one of contentment and jubilation, that, I am sure of.
Every night, her knees touch the floor as she says her prayers. She always remember to be thankful for the life she was given. I remember, five years ago on the night of my death, I had wanted to die. I wanted to be no more and didn't want the pain that life had given me. I was foolish. Following a year since her arrival, I have begun to admire Little Miss Someone. She has seem to give me back the lust for life—a life that I no longer had.
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A few years pass. Nothing I do could ever alert the living to my presence for I am just a spectator. Little Miss Someone has never said anything that could hint to me that she is away of my presence. With three years having gone by, my limbo state no longer brings me uncertainty. Getting to see Susie live her life—the life in which I, to my sorrow, failed to appreciate, brings resentment. If I had not wished for death that night, would it have never happened? I like to believe that no matter what, everything happened at it should have. I could no longer go for the simple things in life, like walks in the park on Sunday before church. Those days were undervalued and not cherished as they should have been. These are all things I should have known long ago. Little Miss Someone does not know that there is someone that would go back, and do whatever they could to have her simple and quiet life. I will be here when these walls have gone dirty and dust collect on the shelf. I would talk to myself and forever remanence about love, life, and joy. It's too late to change, I have crossed the line in which I cannot go back. I am, regrettably, lost.
YOU ARE READING
Phantom of The Little Miss Someone (Short Story)
Ficción histórica"This is something that should have been long ago. I seem to have found my purpose, yet it is too late, for I am now dead." Loosely based of one of my favorite songs Mister Zero by Bob Lind
