The Final Soliloquy

(AN: I have promised myself that I will never write about this again. Consider this the final soliloquy.)

I have a word tattooed on my wrist, and I don’t know what it means anymore.

I have a door in my apartment, a glass on my shelf, and a frame on my wall-- the only remaining relics of a time that, perhaps, was imaginary all along.  

Because the me that I was then is not the me that I am now, nor was it the me that I was before that.  And so it feels like a chapter in someone else’s book that mistakenly got put in mine.

It’s strange to be haunted by a ghost that you don’t recognize but fear more deeply than any other.  There’s no jump scares or inexplicable moving furniture, but a dark figure in the corner that whispers things that I don’t want to hear.

You did this.

You did this.

You did this.

Sometimes it’s in the mirror, staring back at me with voided eyes and a broken skull-- both my past, present, and my future combined.

But it’d be there one way or the other, gliding along behind me like some demented shadow even on sunless days.

So now, all I can do is learn to live with it.

Meanwhile, I try to find the ill-fitting chapter that was and rip it out of my book completely-- it doesn’t belong there, whether I want(ed) it there or not.  But the binding is strong and I am not.

Which leaves the question: do I keep trying to rip it out until I AM strong enough, or do I find a way to incorporate it into the rest of the book?

The ghost is laughing at me.

I don’t blame it, because I gave a key to my home to a stranger.

I just had so many, many empty rooms.

And I picked one out and furnished and decorated it, made it perfect for this new tenant that would make the place look just a little less empty.  

No one ever moved in.  

And I demolished that room, threw it all away, because it should’ve stayed locked and empty the entire time.  

The thing is, though, there’s a stranger still walking around with that key.  

A key with a word on it that I no longer understand.

I figure it’s somewhere, forgotten.

And the ghost is laughing again.

Because I’m not sure I want it back.