When We Were Younger. | On Dublin Street Competition AND John Green Competition

The ghosts of my memories haunt me, keeping me alive until they think it's time for me to die. My time is limited to find the thing that will keep them away from me, but what if that thing is a ghost now, too?


1. Memories Haunt Me.

I often have flashbacks of one kind or another, but I like them. They make me feel human; like everyone else around me, but I know that they don't know about what goes on in my mind. The ghosts that haunt me are only seen by my eyes and no one else's, and that makes me feel special, not disturbed. I've scared a lot of people close to me after I've told them what goes on in my brain. 

I don't look like the sort of person who is haunted by the people I've lost. I have long brown hair and hazel eyes that aren't necessarily deemed beautiful, but have been called pretty by my remaining family. Other than the sustainability of the health of my hair, I'm average, maybe even below average. I've always been this way, and I just let people decide for themselves if I'm worth their time. Only three had, and even then, they weren't there when I need them the most; when the flashbacks start. 

The flashes were frequent, but brief, which I was grateful for. They were simply that; a flash. A quick reminder of why I was like this, of who was following me every single step of the way. It guilts me into keeping away from others, so that I don't replace those I've lost. They follow me, they monitor me like tall, wispy grey clouds in my mind that just won't go away no matter how much it rains. I don't even have an umbrella. I stand there in the cold, willing myself to get hypothermia and die just so that I could get away from the nightmare that I live in. 

I've done so many things to try and escape. I've torn my skin apart with countless numbers of blades, beat myself black and blue, even tried wringing a rope around my neck to stop the ghosts from keeping me alive. But they always keep me alive. It's addictive to continue in such a way; I'm able to destroy myself, but I will not be able to die until they deem it the right time for me to join them. I don't want to join them in the greying space that is Limbo, with the echoing hallways that go on for miles and the wails from those who are stuck there. Yes, I know what Limbo is like. They've told me. They tell me a great deal of things, especially when I'm sleeping. They enjoy invading my dreams of deflated paper-thin faces and black and white clowns drowning in the washy sea. Sometimes they appear as friends, taking on a different form to try and confuse me. It doesn't work. Their eyes are always the same faded green of my mother's. As soon as I see those eyes I scream. 

Journals, blogs, drawing... None of the 'fail-safe' methods are working. I always end up lying on the floor, trying to block out the noises of shrieks and cries from my mind. The sounds of guns, ricocheting off of the walls of my head. Echos of a woman screaming, the trails of tears down my cheeks as I continue with things I couldn't stop myself from doing. I was a monster. 

Oh, did I mention? I murdered my mother. 



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