• Can you see me?
    Of course you can’t.
    I’m not here.
    I died.
    I’m just a memory.
    But I can see you
    I thought I wouldn’t be able too.
    Why am I here but not there?
    No one will answer.
    Today I went to my own funeral. It was held where I was born, a small hill on the outskirts of town. People from all over the states came. People I hadn’t seen in years. My family walked in and I wanted to shout: I’m here! Don’t mourn. Everyone would look in surprise, as I walked into the celebration of my life. But my voice no longer worked.
    If I could cry I would.
    Suicide was instant regret.
    I couldn’t handle his death, now they can’t handle mine. I have ruined their lives, as I had ruined my own.
    I couldn’t hear any of their voices, just murmurs.
    Today I am a watcher.

    I followed her home. She walked into her kitchen, grabbing a bottle of whiskey, and collapsed against her fridge. She looked into the drink for several seconds, and drank. Downed the bottle in a couple minutes. She reached for more. She opened her mouth and uttered something, which i could not hear.
    Her name was Abigail.

    The next day, Abigail went to work. The bustle of her workplace was evident to me. I could hear, phones ringing, people shouting, and the sounds of conversation. Did my hearing work? She sat down at her cubicle, and was immediately called to speak with the boss. She walked away, and into an elevator, climbing, climbing, climbing to the top floor.
    “I heard.” He said, as she walked out of the elevator. I couldn’t hear her reply. Why couldn’t I hear her! Is this my torture? I asked myself
    “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.” She smiled, and said something. I’m sure she respectfully declined. She must’ve
    The rest of the day, I still couldn’t hear a word that Abigail said.

    That night, I drifted away from Abigail, and went to George. He had just gotten home from his job. I followed him into his room, where he whispered to his wife. His wife was staring at a page in a photo album. It was one of me. One of me, and George, and his wife… Standing in front of Niagara falls. It had been the been time I’d ever spent with my brother. He joined her on the bed, and similarly stared at the picture. He looked at her, as they carried on a conversation. His wife started crying, as she dug her face into his shoulder. He looked forward, emotionless. It was a disappointed look. It had to be. I couldn’t hear either of them.