Little Ghost

I raised the bottle to my lips. The smell of cheap peat and smoke entered my nose, sliding its misty fingers into the back of my brain. The amber washed over my tongue, sliding down my throat where it set up shop. Fire sale! Everything must go! That’s when the terror stops

              The ghosts have been chewing at me for awhile now. Eating away at my sanity. Seeping through the air ducts while I sleep. Hiding in the dark corners of my room, watching me as I sleep. When I wake, their eyes gleam through the muddy darkness. I rise from my bed at three forty-five. I’ve only been asleep for roughly ninety minutes. My vision sways, as I swim through the air towards the washroom. They watch me tip toe, as the carpet fluff squeezes through the spaces of my toes. My identity has been erased. Who am I? It takes me a second to find the greasy spot on the wall where my hand rests every time I come in here drunk off my ass, barely hitting the toilet bowl.

              When I’m not drunk, I can smell the walls. A faint ammonia like smell wafts into my nostrils. An alarming signal that I need to clean the bathroom. A sip of cheap scotch will fix everything. It always does. The ghosts are in full force before 1PM. In the early morning is when they are hungriest. A constant vibe of darkness lurks behind my skull.        

              I cook at the busiest restaurant in town. It’s a good living, but they dangle the carrot in front of me ensuring I never leave. Every night, I try to subconsciously recreate the adrenaline rush of a busy service by slamming endless amounts of alcohol back into my skull. I’m not the only one. The rest of the cooks, save for a few old timers who can’t drink anymore on account of the fact that it will kill them, rest their grease coated arms against the cold marble of the bar top at the end of their shifts. A cool grounding, giving them a moment of reprieve before they enter shot city, blasting away at their brain cells like a game of space invaders.

              For me, the space invaders are those pesky little memories I cannot seem to shake.  One shot, BOOM away goes the time I shaved my fathers face before he succumbed to cancer. He was unable to, due to the stroke that had decimated his former self, leaving him a shell of a man. BOOM! Another one. There goes my mothers suicide attempt when I was 11. I was home that day, just so happened to pick up the distress call to my father. I’ve done something bad. That ghost loves to sink its claws in, as pools of blood form around the wounds and drip down into the base of my brain, drowning any form of a normal childhood one might experience.

              By the time we exhaust the cold beer supply at home base, we sprawl into the night, loading up the local bars ensuring their staff will make bank. With each drink, we keep the enemy line tight. The ghosts stay back, transparent bayonets in hand pointed directly at us, waiting for the right time. The main residence, our home away from home, is where we go at the end of the night. We are welcome here because we empty the fridges and fill the tills. This is when the real party begins. This is also when I see him. The bloodthirsty monster that feeds off my waning sobriety. I load up a shell, cock back and BOOM! He’s gone. The cocaine obliterates him. In steps an impeccably dressed, oxford patched professor. A ghost accountant of sorts. He’s here to take inventory. To present my trauma as facts, instead of feelings.

              This is about the part of the night I try to forget. This is when I become the ghost. I attack my pals with one sad, depressing thing after another. Raising the hairs on the backs of their necks, unaware of the damage being done. My brain keeps cool, ejecting one hot shell after another, as the smoke rises into the air, choking those who haven’t left already.  Happy faces morph into sinking heads that bog down into the fog that spews from my mouth.

              I have become an exhaust pipe. Existing without any purpose but to rid myself of the fumes. The remaining men have scattered into the early morning, most likely to escape the toxicity of my past. I flush the empty, white coated baggie, along with my shame from the evening. I look towards the ceiling vent. It’ll be crawling out of there any time now to feed on my sleepless anxiety. I’ve become a delicacy for these creatures, as my brain prickles and buzzes trying to count the sheep that bounce along in my head. The only one I don’t see is the one in the corner. I’ve stayed up too long for the shadows to hang around.

              As the ghosts approach my bed, their fingers claw at the floor as their contorted bodies slide along, leaving trails of green tinged blood. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, avoiding the thought of what they might do to me. My heart pumps faster and sweat begins to emanate from my pores. I bring the duvet closer to my chin, raising it over my face like a child would do when threatened by a monster. The scratching stops. The room is silent. I hear no movement as I stare into the darkness covering my face. I slowly lift the blanket, and I see them. Crowded around my vision, eating at my guts. Taking any semblance of my sanity with them, bite after bite. I am devoured. I am alone.

-

I think of that day as the best day of my life. I would not be here if it had not happened. As I walk around the house now, making coffee at the hour that I used to fall asleep, the scariest thing I can imagine is the thought of my two year old toddler accidentally grabbing my privates in her death grip, asking me to pick her up from the floor and love her a little more. She shines a light so bright that those monsters don’t get close anymore. I have no time to drink, so I must live with them. They stay in the vents, and in the walls. Watching. Waiting. Scared shitless of that bright little star that throws goldfish crackers all over the house.

She has become their ghost.