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Your Forever Girl

The chair’s been empty for years. None of you know I’ve stuck around—how could you? Perhaps you’ve felt me as a icy chill pass over the back of your neck. Have you thought you’ve seen me in the reflection of the medicine cabinet—gone when you turn around and gasp, sheet-white as your blood freezes and you clutch your chest?

Do you hear my whisper call to you in the late hours? Feel as though someone watches from the corner of your room, someone of the shadow?

Yet, here I sit in the same seat I’ve had since I was a young girl, the same seat you’ve left open since I disappeared, and yet, none of you see me. None of you feel me. Has five years been long enough to forget? Five years of unequivocal sorrow that has somehow now been blinked away like simple tears of pain, temporary and weak.

You all sit there and laugh and pass stories the same as you pass candied yams, cozied in the glow of holiday lights—twinkling in your jovial eyes as you do, clinking and toasting

Hurrah!

Hurrah!

Hurrah!

while I brood and grow more spiteful with each passing year because he sits at our table, the one who killed me. Gorging our food, sipping our wine, just as he has every year since the birth of my memories.

You let my murderer join and cheer and bellow and entertain with not one suspicion. Because how could it be him? The kindest friend. The loyal friend. The friend who helped you out of a jam every time, the one you trusted your secrets with, the one who had been called family, though no blood related him.

I feel grief no longer. I feel rage and nothing more. So hot and terrible I think I might burst through this hideous, lonely plane so that all of you may know the truth—but all I manage is to shake the table, nearly lifting off the ground. All I manage is to knock over wine bottles and rattle cutlery against plates.

You all fall silent, casting your eyes around for explanation, spooked, yes, but chuckling it off. Not even one of you think it could be me. Except maybe him. I know he’s felt me before. Watching him. Haunting him, I suppose. His paranoid brain feeling as though something lingers on, something unwanted from the days when his urges became too great, and he broke.

I’ve tried to tell you before. Tried to show you, but I cannot explain in ways you would understand. You might not believe me even if I could.

Who would? He was just giving me a ride home on the first day of Senior Year. I’d trusted him, because you trusted him.

And now, you smile into his face—a killer’s face—and ask him to pass the dinner rolls, and I go along, sitting in my empty seat as the bitter tide consumes me. 

Recommended2 Simily SnapsPublished in All Stories, Horror

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