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Drama

Sometimes you wonder.

You wonder about many things.

Things that are beyond you.

***

Staying in a room may seem boring to you.

But it was special.

I knew what was going to happen.

Days would pass.

People would walk by.

They didn't notice me.

Why would they?

Only children saw me.

Wanted me away.

Told their parents to check in places I could be hiding.

I was never there.

***

A ghost!

They would scream.

Their frightened voices loud and scratchy.

***

I had known I was to die early.

It wasn't a secret.

I was a child.

But now I am grown.

***

And that lets me wonder.

Are there any people like me?

A ghost?

A person in disguise?

No, I assume not.

***

Maybe it was the fact that a closet stood in the way.

Or that when I moved it, bricks would cover the window.

I had no way out.

No way out of this room.

Somehow, light still came in.

I had tried breaking the main window.

But it was indestructible.

It wouldn't work.

Never had.

Never would.

***

It got lonely.

Those first days that I accepted I was dead.

I watched longingly out the main window.

It was one sided with most adults.

I could see them.

But none would ever see me.

I could travel, of course.

There was a book on a desk.

More of a map, really.

It didn't matter.

I could flip the page.

And I would leave there.

And be welcomed to a new sight.

I knew days were passing.

I watched as my father grew old.

I watched him die.

I felt no emotions.

So I didn't bother to cry.

***

I would wake.

I would sleep.

I would watch.

I would wait.

***

Hardly anyone saw me.

Other than little girls and boys of course.

***

One child caught my interest.

She saw me.

But she didn't scream.

Didn't cry.

Said nothing.

But she whispered.

She whispered one word.

Mother.

***

I was not her mother.

But I understood.

Her mother must have been my sister.

We looked alike.

But I was not her mother.

***

After today, I felt nothing.

I saw almost nothing.

I watched as my old house got torn down.

Watched as it grew back.

But not the same.

Not at all.

Never would be.

I thought that there might be a time lapse.

My mother and father had died too fast.

***

It was nice, being dead.

I could watch.

I could wait.

If I wanted or needed something, it would arrive.

I never found out how, but it did.

It would melt through the ceiling.

It would drop on my bed.

I would use it.

I would wait again.

***

I had died of the flu.

That was what the doctors said, at least.

I couldn't see my mother or father while I was sickly.

I would kill them, too, if I did.

I called out in a state of insanity.

Hoping.

Hoping I would live.

Hoping I would die.

Hoping I would see them.

Hoping I wouldn't.

It was insanity.

It wasn't pretty, either.

I was insane.

I was an animal.

I was trapped.

Finally, I decided.

I wanted to see them one more time.

I walked out of my room.

Walked down the grand hall.

Came to their room.

I watched them sleep.

I curled onto the floor.

And I screamed.

Screamed, and screamed.

Until finally I couldn't breath any longer.

And I died.

Just like that.

Never to be heard of.

Never to be thought of again.

***

I flipped the page today.

And I saw a girl.

She was tiny.

But mature.

She was in class, and held a picture of me.

I stared in amazement.

I was wrong.

I was remembered.

I was able to feel emotion.

But then I heard what she was saying.

Nothing was good.

"This is Amanda Comingway. She got the flu in 1894, and died from it in 1895. But the way she died was interesting. From the sources, she was poisoned by her sister, Mary Comingway. She thrashed on the floor, and screamed, and her sister was hung for murder.", the girl said, and took a bow.

I was sad.

They didn't know the real story.

My sister was a good woman.

But hanged?

Never.

The village loved her.

And I was never in the 1800's.

I was in the 1900's.

Not too far off, but still.

So everyone had forgotten me.

***

A boy was reporting next.

Well, not a boy.

A man.

He held a microphone, and was talking into it.

"Coming live, down in Manhattan, the police have found many homicides, and investigations show that they have died in similar ways as Amanda Comingway. Amanda was murdered by her sister, most likely out of jealousy. Her sister was trailed, and hung. This is Dan Young, and we'll be back after this short break!", he said.

Then he told the men with strange lights to turn them off.

They obeyed, and then something strange happened.

I was in a rage.

None of these people got it.

The little girl who took a bow was Mary's Great-however many times-granddaughter!

And the teacher forced her to do the report on her!

How dare they!

I saw the girls face as she read it.

She KNEW all of it was fake!

This was TREASON!

I was just so mad I balled my hands up, and thrust them at the window.

The men screeched when my hands closed.

Closed around their necks.

They weren't a match for me.

I don't know how.

I was murdering people.

This was bad.

I took my hands away.

Heads swung.

Mouthes gaped.

"It-It's Mary!", people gasped.

"Mary!"

"Mary!"

"Look at the blood on her hands!"

People gasped.

Then ran.

But a little boy got down.

He crawled.

He stood up.

He looked me in the eyes.

His innocent gaze was everlasting as he said "Hello, Amanda. You're no Bloody Mary"

March 11, 2021 21:26

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