When does life stop feeling like Mice on Venus by C418?

I thought we were gonna hang this summer

You said we were friends

Light academia this, dark academia that, I want chaotic academia

I want listening to heavy metal whilst reading Dracula or Shakespeare

I want having a cup of tea and a big book on the unsolved murders of your city

I want so-so grades in school but god tier knowledge on mythology before Christ

I want collared shirts layered under band sweaters and slacks

Did you know that Abraham Lincoln and James Madison were the tallest and shortest US presidents respectively

Inviting my problems in for a drink so I can see what’s on their mind

Why don’t you see me?

Why don’t you hear me?

I’m right here, don’t ignore me

Why can nobody notice me?

I’ll only scream for so long

And I’m getting tired

The Afterlife pt. 2

I wandered the halls. All one can really do in my state is wander, explore every crack and crevice of the prison they are confined to until they know it like the back of their hand. My hand is pale with a grey tinge.

I reached the door to the basement. It was locked. It’s been that way since I got here, and has probably been locked since this place shut down. Health code violations or whatever. A lot of nurses were arrested. Nobody can get in or out of it- not that there’s anyone in the basement. If so, they would be a raisin by now. I jiggled the lock and, as usual, the door didn’t budge. Maybe if I had some tools, I could pick the lock or take the door off of its hinges. I was pretty handy around the house before my death.

Being dead is depressing- shocker, right? But it’s also got a lot of misconceptions. For example, I can’t go through walls or teleport. At least I don’t think I can teleport. I haven’t exactly tried yet. What I can do is turn invisible and float. Floating is the best part about all of this.

I write all of this in my journal- journal? Who am I kidding? My journal is a bunch of prescription pads staples together. Anyway, I write all of this in my journal, hoping that I’ll remember it or that a living person will find them and get them to the public.

Not much to write today. Nothing interesting going on. Then again, life isn’t interesting when you’re a ghost.

He sits in the hall, hoping the tears won’t wash away his face paint.

There’s a pep rally, but he doesn’t go. He just sits on the floor, back against the lockers.

His love is playing the music for the pep rally. He wishes he could watch, because his love brings a fire to his soul that nobody else can.

He’s jumped from friend group to friend group, but still, nobody wants him. His mind makes up tricks to beat him down.

“I guess I’m destined to be lonely,” he says.

He doesn’t believe in destiny, not truly, but he believes this phrase.

He’s given up. He’s tried to make more friends, better friends, but he can’t get in. He won’t get in. Student pass by, laughing and chatting with their friends, glancing over at him and thinking “wow, I’m glad that’s not me.”

His reflection isn’t smart, nor attractive, nor does it have an amazing personality that flocks people from miles. He believes the mirror doesn’t lie, how could it, so he’s miles below where he should be.

Hell isn’t a place, it’s a mindset, and to get out of it would be an arduous journey.

Dreams

A dream is a place you go to when you’re asleep. To escape the trouble of daily life, when life seems unescapable.

To talk to hedgehogs and mushrooms, rockstars and villains. A place where your plot is all you have, and to live by that plot is to live out an idea. A perfectly perfect idea, to fight pirates or a scary monster that lives in your head.

Of course, just because it’s in your head, why would that mean it isn’t real? It’s real to you, isn’t it?

My Problems Are Fast, But I Am Faster

I ran. All I could do was move my feet, and I’ll be damned if I slowed down.

My thoughts were scrambled, that was obvious, but considering the circumstances, were they supposed to be clear? Was I supposed to be of sound mind, when just five minutes ago, Candy Roberts’ head exploded right in front of me? I don’t think so. I just wanted her to shut up, not fucking die.

If my mind was broadcasted to the entire world it would be incomprehensible. I would pay the man who could decipher my thoughts a million dollars, because I damn sure couldn’t figure it out. The combat boots on my feet rubbed blisters and slowed me down, but I kept running into the night, not even sure where I should go.

I couldn’t go home. The police had showed up to my school, if not my house, and I couldn’t put my dad in danger or get caught. No, I was going to live with this for as long as I shall live. Where could I go? Would I change my name, cut my hair, and move to the South? If people found out what I could do, that I killed someone with my mind, one of two things would happen:

I would get caught by government officials and sold to a lab to be tested on and become some sort of military weapon, using my powers to spy on and kill the Soviets. The same fate that met my mother. They found her sandal floating in Buggy River, but all signs point to her being kidnapped by the government.

Or,

I would be sent to the electric chair, the jury unanimous on my guilt to capital murder in cold blood.

I didn’t want to kill anybody, I’m just a teenager. All I wanted was for a salty bitch to shut up, and Candy Roberts was that salty bitch. She wouldn’t stop talking about me, spreading things about me that she shouldn’t even know, about my family. I guess I need to be a lot clearer when praying to the universe, because the universe’s way of shutting someone up is killing them. Effective, but unnecessary.

I glanced up at the street sign as I rounded the corner to another block and ‘oh shit, I’ve been running for six blocks straight.’ I was on the outskirts of town.

One way or another, someone would connect me to Candy’s untimely death and that would be the end of my career as a human. I reached the fence of the river, debating on whether or not this is a good choice.

The multiple police sirens getting louder and louder made that choice for me, and I started to climb the fence, which marked the start of my life as an outlaw.

Go figure.

A teenager goes missing in 1993, and is stuck in an abandoned asylum… for eternity. This excerpt from his journal provides insight to life after death.

(Short story)

—•—•—•—•—•—•—

The Afterlife Sucks

I didn't know I was dead at first.

I just thought I'd survived this horrific thing. Maybe that was me trying to accept it. They say your brain is still going seven minutes after you die, but I don't remember that part. One minute I was being on the floor, being attacked with a knife and the next I was getting the hell out of dodge.

Being dead is just like being alive, but you have this hole inside of you. Life fills that hole, but when you don't have life, you have nothing. So there's this emptiness inside that can't be filled.

In the time that I've been dead, I've found out a couple things. You're only a ghost if your death was violent or bloody. You also haunt the place where you died, not where your body is. It's a common misconception, usually because nobody knows what it's like to die.

Not that I know where my body is. Or if my parents know where it is. I didn't hear about it on the evening news.

I was walking home from school on the day of my death. I walked to and from school, everyday. It was just routine for me. I was supposed to graduate that spring. University of Texas, in Austin.

I didn't hear the car pull up next to me. Someone put a hand over my mouth and pulled me in, knocking me out. They were clearly experienced, with the way it went, and it was probably what happened to Katie Miller. She was in my grade, and one day, she just never came back to school. I don't think her parents knew what happened to her.

They brought me to the abandoned asylum, which is poetic if I think about it. But it was smart as well. Nobody would think to look for me there. It's big; the property is several acres. There's a basketball court and a track to walk around.

I remember being there for a couple hours. I wondered if the kidnapper had called my mom, demanding ransom. Was she wringing her hands in the kitchen, telling herself not to worry, that I would be home in time for dinner? Or was she filling out a "Missing Persons" report for the police, giving them details of my shirt and hair, trying to remember just how tall I'd gotten?

Finally, the kidnapper came into the room I was in. Turns out, it was a man. He came in with a baseball bat, probably hoping to beat me to death. When that didn't work, when my ribs were probably broken and my face looked like it lost a fight with a lawnmower, he pulled a kitchen knife and started slashing. It hurt like hell, no other pain like it. He just kept stabbing me and stabbing me. I got away eventually, thinking I could escape and go home, but I didn't stop to notice that my wounds were gone. The only thing left to remind me of that day is the scars from it.

Death is just one of those things, I guess. It's unnoticeable, just like falling asleep. But instead of a dream, it's a nightmare I can't wake up from. After a while, though, I got used to it. All the life I used to have, the humor, the happiness, it's gone. Harold says that's what happens if you die like I did.

Harold used to be a patient here, but because of his issues, he ended up killing himself. He was forty-six when he died, back in the seventies. He's a calm spirit, still retaining some of his human emotions. I assume it's because he died not fearing death.

I wonder about my mom sometimes.

Does she know what happened? Have they caught my murderer? Harold said that ghosts have a lot of questions when they die. God knows I was bursting with them.

I didn't know why I couldn't leave, on that day, until I saw my murderer dragging my body out the door. It was terrifying, seeing myself so limp and lifeless, with no power left to fight him off. "Wake up!" I screamed. "Wake up and run, dammit!"

I ran after that, through the corridors, until I hid in the pharmacy. That's where Harold found me, sitting in the corner. He's one of the kind spirits, if not the only one. Most of the spirits died angry or scared, so that's why they're the ones who kill the living.

I don't know which emotions I died with. Fear? Anger? I just feel kind of hollow. Like chronic depression, and it doesn't get better or worse.

They say that when you die, you go to a better place. Well, I want a refund, because this whole ghost thing is utter bullshit. Sometimes, I can't even remember my own name.

I've started writing it down, but then I lose the paper. Maybe it's because I'm not supposed to remember. The only reason I know who Harold is is because I found his file from when he was alive and the picture that was taken. Bipolar can be a bitch, I guess.

Right now, I'm sitting where I usually do: the Room. Nobody else goes in there, except for maybe Harold, but it's only when he's looking for me. I don't want to be found this time, though, so I do my thing to ensure that. The Room is where it all happened: the captivity, the beating, the murder. It's kind of dark, to purposefully spend time in the place where you were killed, but it's comforting, somehow. I go here when I want to be alone, so a good portion of my time.

Time. Does time even exist for you when you're dead? It must to some degree, otherwise you wouldn't have poltergeists. They're created when a ghost keeps their anger pent up too long, and in the building, there's one. Nobody here remembers who it was when it was living, but it was probably who created a couple of the ghosts that haunt the place.

Being dead sucks in that you feel hollow, like chronic depression, but you can’t just magically take a pill to get better. But at least I have eternity to spend here, mostly alone, reading all the books in the library and going through the patient files.

I may not fit in here, with the others ghosts, but I still have some of my humanity, which is worth its weight in gold.