My eyes immediately trace the columns of crimson that are lined in front of me, standing parallel of each other. These lockers must have been here for longer than I have or even longer than the statue built from rock just outside the building. I call him 'the Anguished' with his head tilted downwards, looking at his elbows comfortably placed on a concrete porch. He looks dejected, almost drowsy, sort of like what you would expect from someone who has been waiting for quite some time. He might as well be considered the personification of punishment—that is, if punishment were to ever have a tangible figure. The outlines of his wings have started to corrode. The only prominent indicator of his identity as an angel have gradually become indefinable, but I just know they are there. I feel it to be there, even when nobody else sees. The long locks of his hair fall on his robe that seems too dull for him, maybe he needs more embellishments. Rhinestones, perhaps? I revert my attention back to the scene in front of me. Some poorly drawn and some excellently put together posters have been glued to the walls above the lockers—kids, I thought. One by one the lights in the hallway start to flicker off. I have been struggling, for a while, I would say, to make sense of what was happening but have yet to succeed. I have been pining, antagonizing even, to have a grip on anything that could pass off as awareness.
Recollection or just any kind of familiarity, I would say is a distant memory, if I even had memory—which I don't. All I can say is that one day, I was here, and I have been here since. It was a lot worse when I first realized what was happening to me. Now, I have come into terms and embraced the simple truth that seems impossible but has happened to me.
I am dead.
Yes—I died. From what reason exactly? I have yet to find out. All I can point out is that I am alone. I have been wandering in dizzying solitude since this differently commissioned being of mine came into perspective. I see people, but I to them, am non-existing. I hear people, constantly—it's unfaltering—yet they never perceive me. I am among them, though I have never felt more isolated. With no one left to see, hear, or even feel me, I have been left to the absolute best being to have as company—me. Exciting isn't it? With the only sense of humor present being mine, it is undoubtedly a blast, the infallibly finest party. See, perhaps all this time we've been misunderstanding ghosts. Maybe we should be more afraid of being them and going through what they go through rather than just seeing them. Perhaps all the tell-tales of apparitions and hauntings are attempts of liberating themselves from the loneliness, but mistaken for hostile pursuits. If I were to describe it, I would say being a ghost is exhausting, but who am I kidding, we never actually physically feel exhausted—there is no physical.
Who I am? I have yet to figure out also. I look down at the sight I have been assessing for the past couple of months. A dark blue coat covers a white polo where a red plaid necktie conveniently dangles against the cotton materials. Three gold buttons slide down the coat that is met by a dark-hued skirt that falls just above my knees. Must be cold, I think to myself. I was wearing long black socks and a sturdy pair of school shoes. This is the closest, and quite literally, only indication I have of who I must have been. This is the nearest I have had to an identity. The most acceptable interference goes as follows
I used to go to a private boarding school. Conveniently, I have a name tag, but my own name does not even ring a bell.
Lacey Price
My name is Lacey Price and the statistical probability is, I used to stay in this school. I am your (non) living proof that some movie plots prove to be true. Right now I feel like I am one of the characters of a horror stint, except that I am not one of the protagonists—I am merely one of the supplementary elements that secure a good conflict and prompt shrill shouting from the audience, the kind that gives couples and potential lovers excuses to grab hold of each other. I do not look gruesome might I clearly point out. Well, I mean, nothing out of the ordinary kind of gruesome. I have subdued auburn colored locks that cascade to the small of my back. My skin is pale and on my face rests small spread out freckles. I have emerald iridescents that hide beneath my eyelashes which curve just about the edges. My eyebrows have lives of their own, they look maintained yet liberated. It almost looks like they are bellowing for everyone else's attention. Across my thinly figured nose lay darker shadowed freckles and just below it would be my noticeable cupid's bow—if there was anyone who could actually notice me right now—and then my mouth that I would like to think forms a heart whenever I smile, which is now very rarely. I try to enthuse myself time and time again but what is there to think about when you are alone and without any memory to rely on for feelings—entertainment, humor, shame, guilt, elation, humiliation, anything at all.
