Fiction | Short Story

Ghost of Me

The Girl Who Haunts Herself

I loved once, my ghost said.

She whispers to me from dark doorways and through the mouths of blank eyed strangers on the subway.

I don’t care is always my answer.

I only said that to hurt her feelings. I wanted to see her translucent, dead girl cheeks glistening with tears.

I loved like a child. I hear her murmuring to herself while I try to sleep. Some nights she wanders around confused and mumbling to herself as she haunts someone other than me.

I am, am I just a ghost? Is the light a lie? Why won’t you talk to me? Don’t they see me?

Some nights, her mournful yammering is just too much.

I wake up with her cold, dry breath on my lips and the wisp of her weight in my bed.

It doesn’t matter, I tell her. Find someone who believes. Scream into ears that will hear. Please let me sleep.

My voice is hardly anything and with the impact of a plosive she’s gone.

I’m alone.

Occasionally people say, oh, I saw your sister. Why is she so shy?

How do I even start to explain?

Oh, that’s not my sister, she’s just my ghost.

My shade.

My imagination.

She is the projection of an invisible suicide imprinted on the air.

It doesn’t matter.

Reports of my death will remain as accurate as they can be.

If a tree dies in the forest, it will come back with a ghost and a shitty attitude.

She wanders and returns.

She leaves a hint of my perfume in rooms I’ve never been in and cold spots in my bed.

I loved once, she says, as always.


Yes. I did.