My Friend Matt

It came without warning. Well, not completely. I just thought Matt said he wanted to be a ghost. Not that he wanted to make a ghost.

It made sense to me. Matt was basically already a ghost. He said, a ghost is a dead person with a deadly grudge. He just didn’t have the ‘being dead’ part down.

I never thought Matt was scary—not the way others did. They said, he stares for a while sometimes. Not at a person, just the wall. His arms are too long, they said. His fingertips almost reach his knees.

I never noticed how offset Matt’s eyes were. Just a little too yellow, they said. Pupils a little too sharp. Sharp enough to catch the others’ attention, but not mine.

I never thought Matt’s collection of shotguns was strange. I always assumed he was a hunter. What I didn’t know was that he didn’t hunt animals.

I never took their warnings seriously. I never listened to logic. I turned a blind eye to what they said, what he did. I thought Matt was my friend, that he would never hurt me.

I was wrong.

And now I sit on my headstone. Seeing my family members come and go. However, it’s not just them I see, but every visitor to cross the graveyard.

I see a multiple of different faces, every day. This time, I really look at them. What I see is the Matts of the world.

With their long stared, overgrown arms, offset eyes, shotgun collections, and secret desires.

Would you notice that? Notice the Matts of the world? I’d bet you won’t. I didn’t. I’d bet you deny it. I did.

But he’s there. Waiting. Watching. With his long stares, overgrown arms, offset eyes, shot gun collections, and secret desires.

Just hope your Matt’s secret desire isn’t to make a ghost.