DOE

W I N E + T E A R S

I come over to you. I sit on the empty chair next to you. You look even prettier than usual today. Your brown hair is short and just hits your shoulders; flowing like a halo around your face. You cut your waist-length hair when I died. Maybe you wanted to look as different from me as possible. Your gown is rented--you don't own anything formal. It was maroon taffeta silk, flowing around you in a heap on the chair you are perched on. Your makeup was piled on. You rarely ever did that--you did it for George. And now he's gone.

George was the guy you met in Renaissance Lit. He is nice, intelligent and handsome. He swept you off your feet, he was the person you took solace in after I died. You would talk to him about me sometimes, and these talks would normally end with tears. It made me feel angry that I could only just watch. I hated myself for doing this to you.

George took you to a ball today. It was his distant relative's wedding anniversary. But halfway through, he had taken your hands and told you he couldn't be with you. Then he had walked away.

Your mascara isn't waterproof like the rest of your makeup. It runs down your face, making you look like a racoon. A cute racoon, though.

I walk over to the buffet table and fill a glass of wine. Thankfully no one notices the floating glass, since I cover the glass between the folds of the white dress I was buried in, now ragged and dirty. I set the glass on to the table next to you, making sure I make a loud clink so that you hear it. You turn and look at the glass, startled. But you don't ask any questions. You grab it and gulp it down, your tears mixing with the wine. I haven't poured enough to make you drunk. I can tell that you want to go home. What is the purpose of your staying here? You've had enough. You stand up and wipe at your tears, and a shaky feeling rocks my body. It's your sadness. I can feel it. I can feel every emotion that you feel. You open your gold clutch, take out a wad of tissues and completely eradicate any remains of the tears. Your eyes are red, but you still look beautiful. You walk out of the big doors that lead to the exit. People around you notice, but they don't care.

I know you aren't used to not being the centre of attention. Here you are only known as George's weird girlfriend who likes to cry in corners. As you go outside, you sit on the sidewalk. You try to hail a cab, but none of them stop. You bury your head into your gown and cry.

I walk towards you and sit down, next to you. I stop a cab. I have these weird powers over humans-- I can manipulate their minds, make them do what I want to do. I rarely use this power though. It makes me feel weird, controlling a person like a marionette. You look up in surprise. Seeing your face covered in tears and snot makes me want to use my powers to make you forget everything, even my death or that you ever had a twin sister. But I'm not supposed to interfere in your life much. Old Jim told me that.

When you get in the cab, I climb in next to you. The last time we got into a cab like this was when I was alive. The driver had been a very creepy man, and when he had stopped the car next to a dirty, dark alley, we had jumped out and ran.

Remembering the way we held hands as we ran puts a smile on my face and makes me sad at the same time. I look at you and clutch your hand. Your skin is soft and smooth. I feel like I've ruined your life. If I hadn't died, you wouldn't have met George. You wouldn't even have been interested in him.

As we reach home--our home, you get up and knock on the door. Mother runs out and hugs you. I want Mom to hug me too. I walk up to her and hug her too. Her embrace is still warm. I look up at her and I see that her eyes have gone white. Her skin is pale. For a second I think she can see me, but then I realize she's not looking at me. I turn around and look at what she's looking at.

What I see shocks me to the core.