Circa 1964
My name is Frank, and I fucking love my life. I’m dating this gorgeous bird named Geri. She’s got dark hazel eyes and golden hair that falls down her back in gentle waves. We’ve been going steady for about two months now, and things for me have just never been better.
I finish my journal entry, tapping my pencil on the paper thoughtfully. It’s true, but it just doesn’t seem quite right. I add “I love her.” That’s what was missing. I decide that I’ll tell her tonight, at my house.
She comes over, and we have the house to ourselves. She sits down on my sofa, straightening her circle skirt. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes,” I reply. I sit down next to her, taking her hands in mine. “Geri, I- I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Geri yanks her hands away. She then realizes how hurt I must look, because she pats her back and apologizes,
“Frank, this just isn’t working out. I think you’re a swell guy, but…. I don’t feel that way. I hope you understand.”
I begin crying, out of my control. “But- but…” I move closer to her, reminding, “I love you.”
She stands up and responds, “Well Frank, the thing about falling in love? It hurts!” With that, she leaves, and I let her. The door slams, and the entire doorframe shakes from the force.
I lay on the couch and bawl, my chest heaving painfully. I… I’ve never lost someone in my life… never been dumped… never even had a pet die. I’ve never learnt how to be sad. Maybe that’s why it’s so horrible right now.
I hear a knock on my door. “Geri?” I ask hopefully.
The door is kicked open, by a hoard of young men with guns.
I scream and leap to my feet.
“Get on the ground!” one of them snaps.
I slolwy descend to the ground, my heart pounding in my chest. I hold my hands behind my head, and watch as they rob my house. Noticing that none of them are watching me, I begin to army crawl towards the door. I glance over my shoulder as I crawl, almost there.
“Hey! He’s trying to run!” one barks.
One of the men shoot me in the head. I don’t know who did it, or why they thought it was necessary, but I die right away. I rise out of my body, to see the men all stare at my corpse in terrror.
“Let’s scatter!” one of them yells, dropping all of the possessions he gathered and sprinting for the door.
The rest follow, all yelling and whooping. Some are afraid, running far from my body, and others leap right over it. All I know is that they leave me there. And no one calls the cops. My parents find my body in the living room when they get home, crimson blood seeping into the hardwood floor.
My mom falls to her knees, crying. She lifts my head, and screams at the large wound on one side. She drops it and hugs my body around my neck, sobbing,
“Oh my poor baby. Shh, it’s okay.”
My father just stands in the doorway, his mouth open in shock. He then drops his briefcase, and rushes to the phone dialing 911.
“Frankie, what did you get into?” my mom weeps.
“Mom, I’m right here,” I comfort. I reach out my hand to place it on her shoulder, but it just goes through. “Mom?” I ask. “MOM!”
But she can’t hear me. She lays my body in her lap, petting my hair with one hand and resting her other across my stomach. My father hangs up the phone, and she shrieks,
“Who would do this to our son!?”
My father leans down next to her, pulling my body from her lap. He guides her out of the room with his hands on her shoulders. I follow them up the steps, to see him lie her down in her bed. He kisses her on the cheek and swears,
“Everything will be okay. All things happen for a reason.”
I lay down next to her, holding her hand, even though it just kind of sits in the middle of it, going through it really. I hug her, whispering,
“I’m right here, mom. Right here.”
She shivers, and her breath comes out in a cloud. She pulls the blanket up to her neck, and continues to shake with cold as I wrap my arms around her.
“I’m right here, mommy,” I cry.
The cops arrive, and my dad lets my mom watch them carry out my body. They have no leads on who did it, and, fifty years later, the crime remains unsolved.
I now haunt this house, sort of on accident. For instance, a child will run in on a dare, and I’ll get close to them to get a better look. They’ll feel an icy prescense with them, and run out crying. Another time, when Geri came to the house, my first instinct was to ask,
“Geri?”
She ran out screaming. I must have become more powerful, because my mom couldn’t hear me scream when she found my body. Now Geri visits years later, and my question sends her running.
My parents come in sometimes to sit on the couch. They’ll talk about me some, cry a lot, and then leave, resting roses on the spot where I died. The first time they did this, I took the roses, only to see them immediatley shrivel up and die. I don’t pick up the roses anymore.
When my parents stop visiting, and a whole year goes by without me seeing them, I realize that they must have died as well.
But I was wrong. One day, this frail little old woman walks in. She sits herself down heavily on the couch, clutching roses in her hand.
“Frank, I remember when you were young,” she reminisces.
It’s… it’s my mom.
“You couldn’t believe that there were bad people in the world. And…” she starts sobbing. “Look where that got you.”
I start crying, and I slink down the steps, gazing at my mother through the rail supporters.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, Frankie, but I believe you can,” she says. I sit next to her on the couch, eventually moving onto her lap, just wanting to be held by her once more.
“Your father died. Those cigarettes finally got him,” she informs. She gasps softly, putting her hand over her mouth. She cries harder, and chokes out, “I’m the only one left.”
Goosebumps raise off her skin, and her breath again comes out into little clouds. I’m making her cold.
“Frankie, I love you,” she weeps. She stands, and I fall through her onto the couch. I watch her place the roses down on their usual spot, and she says,
“I just want to make sure you know that.”
With that she leaves. I’m reduced to a sobbing mess on the floor.
My mother visits once a week, bringing photographs each time. Not only does she talk to herself, but she talks to me. She talks about my father, too. About how different things are without me. About how much losing her only baby hurt. One week she doesn’t come. One week turns into five months, and five months into six years. That’s when I realize that my mother died as well. That’s when I realize that I’m the only one left.

Notes

So sad! I cried writing this, A LOT. Don't judge me, I'm an emotional person.

Please leave a comment! Thanks so much for reading!