He walked in...

It was dark, cold, frightening. I never understood why. I never thought I could go down like that. I was the man, the one who would jump out of planes, fly off of cliffs, and climb El Capitan. I couldn’t go down like that. I couldn’t. I couldn’t be buried, stuck in a place I didn’t want to be in. I was never scared before. I was never frightened because I knew that if I did die, it would be out in the open, people would see me struggling to survive, and I could live with that. But this, this was different. I was trapped and I couldn’t hear anything, feel anything anymore. The only thing I could see was the crack in the floorboard. The one sliver of light pierced through, and that was my only hope.

Every night he would walk by, and drop a piece of bread through, but she would never notice. I don’t understand how she wouldn’t notice, how she didn’t remember anything from that night. But she didn’t.

I was strapped down by chains, the only thing I could move was my head and my fingers. Everytime he dropped the piece of bread, it would fall to far away, Every time. It had been 1 month since the incident. I don’t know how he managed to pull it off, wipe her memory and make me suffer for something I didn’t even do. Make me suffer because he died.

It’s confusing, he was the ghost, I was still alive, barely. He was the ghost comforting my wife. The woman I wanted to grow old with. The woman I needed to complete my life. You see, one night I heard something. A rattle. I got up, walked down the stairs, and there he was. A ghost, I yelled but nothing came out. I ran, but I couldn’t move. And then something happened. He ran at me. He pushed me down, but I was still standing. My body was still standing. I, my soul, my ghost was on the ground. Not able to move, freaking out. Trying to scream and yell and nothing coming out. Then what happened next scared me even more. He, the ghost, walked into the kitchen. Grabbed a towel, and walked back over to me. He used the towl to somehow grab me, but I didn’t feel it. Then he dragged me into the corner, and pushed me down further. Down into the floorboards where I laid now. Unable to hear, feel, or die. I was there, a ghost. He was up there. In my body, sleeping with my wife. Eating the food she cooked. And I couldn’t do anything about it.

I wasn’t murdered, if that were the case my body would be dead. But I died, me, my soul, my life was gone. My body was alive and it was living his life. I couldn’t do anything. I was gone. Nothing could save me now.

2 months later…

She walked in, another one. Another ghost. And she pushed my wife down. The same way that the man had pushed me down. Then she walked over to the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and dragged her over to the corner. Where I lay. She was pushed down, right next to me. I couldn’t say anything, but neither could she. And it didn’t matter. My wife was with me. We were stuck, but at least we were stuck together.

A crazy thing happened after that. The man and woman began to love each other. I’m guessing they were married, the same way we were, and what happened to us happened to them first. So at least I know I can get a body back. It might not be mine, but at least I will be with my wife. Alive, living, and able to survive together. We will be them, the ghost of the past, turned now to the living. Fighting again, but loving more. It would be the way we were supposed to live. Our own lives, together, in different bodies.