My ghosts and Me

I sit here staring at the blank, white screen before me; the blinking cursor mocks me as it flashes. “Blink, blink, blink, your mind is blank, blank, blank,” it whispers to me. Or maybe that is just those little voices in my head again.

The wind is tearing apart my favorite tree, the house is still and creaking, preparing itself for a night’s rest. Soft sounds from the baby’s room, a dog snoring softly on my foot. All seems well.

Inside, however, is a raging storm of pain and anger, fear and guilt. Fire floods my system, blood boiling with the thoughts of that fateful night, almost exactly four years ago.

I hear his voice now and then, my husbands. I hear him teasing me or degrading something or someone near me. He was never much of a voice of reason, but he was the balance for me.

Tears burn my eyes, I know they are darkened grey with the pent moisture, the checked rage. I do not need to look at them, I have seen them in this state many times before.

My hands shake, body craves numbness that will never come. I am alone, here, and yet I feel the weight of a dozen entitites clamoring to speak to me. I hear them, they know it, and yet tonight, for once, I can ignore them.

The ghosts walk my hall, restless. I wonder if my husband still walks this world alone.

Fingers touch my cheek, it is the woman. She is drawn to me because of the sorrow and pain I emanate nightly. I cannot help her find peace, for I cannot find it myself.

The ghosts are all I have tonight. The ghosts, a strong wind, and the pleasing scent of rain.