Letters With a Ghost

Chapter Ten

"He's gone. He overdosed and died in his sleep. I just thought you should know."

She felt the heat rise in her face as the voice of Ayden's mother surfaced from the recesses of her mind. She sounded cold, indifferent, as if her youngest son was sitting right in front of her eating breakfast as she delivered the news of his death.

Camryn could not have come up with a single comparison to describe the feeling that washed over her. The worst feeling a human could know, the feeling of your heart coming up your throat, a suffocating tidal wave of every single bad feeling in the world.

She felt every bone snap simultaneously, she felt a million cinder blocks stack on her chest, she felt the world rotate in slow motion leading up the moment she blacked out.

To look back on it was enough to make the initial pain return full circle.

She didn't understand. He assured her that he was fine. She supposed she should have known better.

Camryn shook her head violently in a desperate attempt to clear the thoughts. She needed to silence the harsh voices telling her that she would be happy again as long as she followed suit.

I promised him, she thought. I promised him I wouldn't give up.

Her thoughts were finally interrupted by her mother barging into her room.

"There's a girl at the door," she said shortly. "Wants to talk to you."

Camryn scrambled out of bed and down the stairs. She found Danielle sitting in her living room.

Danielle rose when she saw Camryn appear. "Hey," she said. "Got a minute?"

Camryn nodded. She wasn't used to people showing up at her house unannounced to talk to her.

"So I was talking to Jonathan, from AWC. He wants to work on saving the club, but we need your help."

Camryn raised her eyebrow, somewhat confused. "You need my help? Why?"

"You're the only other one we have," Danielle said, sounding defeated. "Lilly and Sarah say that it's a lost cause and that we should just give up. The thing is, this club is all I look forward to in school anymore. You seem to be pretty passionate about it too, which is why I think you would be the perfect person to help us out with this."

Camryn smiled slightly. It felt good to be considered wanted for something.

"So are you in?" Danielle urged.

"Of course I am," Camryn said.

Danielle smiled. "Great," she said. She handed Camryn a small piece of paper. "That has my address. Jonathan and I were planning to meet up there after school tomorrow, if you're available."

Camryn nodded, taking the paper. "Sounds like a plan."

"Great! See you there." Danielle turned to leave, only to turn around to face Camryn once more. "One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you bring some of your writing with you," Danielle added. "We need to come up with things that we can show Mr. Waters as good enough proof that the club should be kept running."

Camryn's smile faltered slightly. "No problem," she managed.

"Great. See you tomorrow." With that, Danielle turned and left.

Camryn returned to her room, mind churning. There was only one way for her to slow her racing thoughts.

Dear Ayden,

So we found a way to save the Aspiring Writer's Club. The only problem is, the aspiring writers need to show the writing they aspire to receive recognition for.

I don't write anymore.

I lack ideas. My inspiration is in a cemetery five miles up the road from here. Unfortunately, gray headstones don't spark the same fascinations as smiling faces.

Isn't it funny? Death is surrounded by so much emotion. The same goes for life. Emotion surrounds us in every single stage of our existence.

Then we die and are given the most emotionless marker to keep track of our presence. To give us a final farewell.

One that echoes on for forever.

A dismal cry in a crowded room of ghosts, swallowed by the congregation of emotionless expressions, doomed to be forgotten, yet damned to be remembered.

Every single bad thing, all giving the worst kind of inspiration:

Pain.

A pain that you try to ignore at first but only grows more annoying.

More frightful.

More deadly.

Soon pain is holding a knife to your throat. When you write, it sounds more like a strangled cry for help. No one needs to know.

I will never show them these letters. They only reveal my darkest secret.

I'm holding a loaded shotgun to my head and swearing I'm not suicidal.

The world doesn't ask any questions.

They only guide my finger closer and closer to the trigger.

Then one day...

Nothing.

--Camryn