Ghosts' of November

CHAPTER 1: One Small Step

> As August becomes November the days get shorter; but the nights couldn't get any colder. I'm not sure if I remember exactly when the dreams began again. At first, they were shapeless, just moments of panic between shallow gasps of air. When she was alive, there were many nights where I would whisper into the night the screams I tried to hide. She knew I was dreaming again, but she also knew there was nothing more she could do. This morning, the birds sang a song that I almost remembered. As my coffee changes from what was to what it was becoming.

> Towards the end her eyes seemed to be closed more than they were open. Some nights we would read the Word together, trying to find some peace in the midst of this death. I kept reading for her, but I didn't see any reason to. I never understood how much love kept covered, until the day that love died. Maybe this is why I ran from it in the beginning. The story of her life was simple, but that is what made her so complex. She was just simply herself, and just like you imagined her at the same time. I don't think she was ever afraid, like she knew something, something I had no hope in.

> Is it possible to not regret something, but sometimes still wish it never would've happened? Is that like saying we met by accident, but I had planned it out for more days than I could count. Her first words were lost in the moment, but our first conversation I could never forget what she said. It was sometime in October when I first noticed her kite alone in the misty sky. It was almost May before I had the courage to even try and say hello. It was so simple, how easily I fell in love with her. These memories become too much too soon. I put my coffee cup near the coffee pot, and head into the empty room.

> I sometimes wonder why it is only some memories I seem to remember. What happened to all the other moments of this life? The room is too cold but the chair is too hard. There really is no need to sleep, but there is no need to stay awake either. The sun begins to break open the sky. Who's to say whether it is a day beginning or a day ending that is important. I've learned time really ever only uses our imagination against us, especially when we are guilty. After so many hours of pain; sleep comes quickly but it is so shallow I can barely breathe.

> My eyes open, and fear grips my heart. Old Blue my dog is not in the room. If she wasn't let out last night, there would be hell to pay this morning. The sweat stains remind me of how many nights where there has been no sleep. My skin feels like ice, that is until my feet touch the dusty wood floor. Looking outside the sunbites against the neon purple clouds, as dawn slowly approaches. My nightmares become real. Opening the door a crack at a time leaves plenty of room for my imagination. Listening so hard sound becomes deaf. This little shack sure doesn't feel so little this morning.

> It was more from memory that I avoided the cracks that creek. My feet hovering as close to the edge as one could without scraping against the wall. There was nowhere to hide, there would never be. The radio is playing softly, one of the few singers on this station that wasn't half bad. They said his name was "The Man in Black." He was singing: 'You ask me if I'll get along I guess I will some way I don't like it but I guess things happen that way.' His eyes are so black they could've been red. Panic has me frozen on my tiptoes, not even time is moving.With a whisper that screams of rage "boy how many times have I told you to let that damn dog out? He pissed all over the carpet again, and I stepped in it on the way to the bathroom."

> The bottle reaches his lips before the last words are said. "I'm going to teach you this time so that you don't forget." He said these words as if he believed that it were possible for me to forget. As he begins to stand, my knees become weak. This moment has always existed, and it will feel just like it felt last time. That much can never be forgotten. The monster in him has awakened and is about half-way through the living room. When he decides he can't wait any longer before he unleashes his anger. The bottle that was in his hands, hit my chest, but it was my head he was after. My breath is gone, as his breath is in front of me now.