The Haunted and other short stories

Train

“You are so intelligent, and kind. I’ve never met anyone more insightful,” she was going on and on about my qualities. It was unnerving. I believe it was suppose to make me uncomfortable. Smiling sweetly, I hid a rage beneath my surface. She does not know me. My mind was neatly organized in filing cabinets. She will never see anything I do not want her to see. Nor will anyone else. My perfection, my sweet façade was exactly that, a mask. They will not love me if they truly saw me. I want them to be happy. Scaring others was not my goal in life. Other people were different. They were normal. Reminding myself that was the issue, I focused back on the session. Perhaps if I get through this I will not pray to die each day.

“Let’s choose a goal for this week. What is one thing that you could do? Something you enjoy doing?”

I was trying to cooperate. It had been so long since I liked doing anything. There was a long pause before I answered, “I write.”

“I had no idea that you enjoy writing. You are full of surprises. What do you write about?” I wondered whether my therapist’s face was permanently stuck in a grotesque smile. I shook that thought from my head. Liking her was one reason I still came.

“I only write when I feel well.”

“Just give it a try.” She cared about me. As I headed out to leave a thought came to me, “Should I care?”

The passing of the train meant it was two o’clock. I shouldn’t be out here. It was late. Dark had fallen over the city. Of course, I couldn’t sleep anyway. There was no point in going home. My head was buzzing. I felt light and dizzy. Did I take too many pills again? I could not remember nor did I care. Watching the train was similar to watching time pass. The click of the rails was the tick of a clock. Each train car was a moment come and gone. Soon it will leave me. It leaves. I will be alone in the dark, again. The train kicks up dirt. Dust tingles in my nostrles. How easy would it be to end all of this? How many steps? I’d regret it not hurting more. It will hurt in hell. That thought makes me happy. I desperately want to suffer. It makes me feel alive. Death will make me feel alive. I took a step forward only to feel a hand on my shoulder. Looking back, no one was there. My phone rang. I looked at it. Eighteen missed calls. Perhaps I should answer.

“Hello?”

“Honey, what’s wrong with your voice? Don’t move I’m coming to get you. Keep talking to me. Where are you?”

Last night I cried. I felt each pearl of water graze down my face. Each sob was a spasm of breath. I lay in bed crying for hours. This was surprising. Not for the reasons most would suspect. Seven years had passed since I had last shed a tear, a real tear. Ok, I admit there were times drops of salt water fell from my eyes. I was sad. People cry when they are sad or when they don’t know why. Yet it had been seven years since my soul has cried. Every hormone, muscle, and nerve was weeping. Last night I cried.

Several years ago I decided to rid myself of emotion. They made me weak. They made me sad. For years of my life, I was classified as being severally depressed. Perhaps I was scared of crying. Scared of being sad. Yet here I was crying. Physically crying was not surprising. I had been on antidepressants for weeks and was doing well. What surprised me were my feelings of happiness. It had been seven years since I had felt joy. Years of hollowness caused myself to forget these things: why we feel, why life is vibrant, why we wake up each day, why we continue to move on. Logically, I could not understand why I was weeping. I just did. I breathed. This is what living feels like.