Haunted (Journaling)

By Asche Keegan

I have abandoned my old haunts, but they have not abandoned me.

I sit alone in empty rooms, ancient worlds calling to me. Voices whisper. Remember your first English teacher? In that dusty room? It was always raining outside. The projector was broken. She did everything by hand, brought props to class. She was so busy, but you never saw it. She would have corrected your passive voice.

The dust makes me cough, but I go to the window and look out. That same tree still sits here outside the window, lightly waving its branches. She was there when they hospitalized you. Then, you didn’t even say goodbye.

I leave and keep wandering.

I find myself in an empty auditorium, standing on a table and staring at the giant screen opposing me. Remember when he taught you how to dab? This was the only classroom you goofed off in, the only class you played Minecraft during. One of only a couple teachers to whom you never sent a thank you note. It still smells like mold and mildew and the green velvet that encased the walls.

I can’t stay here, so I leave the school, wandering.

And then I’m running, feet slamming the concrete until I reach the soccer fields I grew up on, where three years of soccer and training left me behind. Now, I’m slow and gasping for breath, hands on my knees, sputtering out my protests before the voices begin. You always played on the Turquoise team. Lost every game but one in your second year. That was pretty cool. To win for once. You hated the Orange team. And the White team. But the umpire gave you free candy sometimes.

I catch my breath and keep running.

I pass the softball field where I caught my first pop fly—Remember the sunflower seeds covering every inch of the dugout?—the other fields where I played first base for three years—remember that one time you played pitcher? Is it still an old haunt if you’re playing again this year?—and then I’ve crossed the loop, and I’m heading back into town again—remember when you learned how to drive on this road?

I pass the hotel I grew up in—remember when they kicked you out?—and the ice cream store we used to visit every week—but you only ever got bags of baby carrots—and the Pizza Hut we always longed to go to—even though you could never eat pizza—and still I keep walking.

And as I walk, the voices point out things that used to be here but aren’t anymore—remember when that billboard advertised swimming lessons? That used to be a jewelry store. The bookstore’s been out of business for years now.

And everywhere I walk, the memories rise up, overwhelming and consuming me. The new hotel, the sauna place, the gym, the old gym, the Kids Club, the hospital, the stores where we ate all those baby food peas, parking lot after parking lot imprinted with memories traced right along the white parking lines.

There’s a road here, which we proudly marched down during the annual Christmas parade—Remember when you had friends who cared about you? Remember the pedophile you accidentally let into the organization? Remember the triumphant lifting of your banners? Remember the lights and the glow? The breathless anticipation? The aching in your ankles? I’m crying in the middle of the road. There’s a car coming, but I barely see it. I can't handle it anymore.

I leave the city behind, and I step into fantasy, wandering.

There’s so many doors everywhere, stretching into other worlds, and I pick one at random, falling in. When next I open my eyes, I’m surrounded by caterpillar weeds, stretching forward in all directions. Above me a million galaxies appear in the sky, and lanterns light a path through the field. Somewhere soft music lilts on a warm breeze that smells like hot chocolate. Remember when Ayla held you when you cried? Remember when your best friend had a discussion with Ayla for you to get her to stop being angry at you? Remember when Ash died?

The last thought dissolves the world, plunging me into the next. Red clay now covers every surface. Flat-topped homes have caved in places, been demolished in others. A long road, made up of a dust just as red as the rest of the world, stretches out into the far off distance. A lone man stands just within sight of the end of the road, staring into the sunset. Remember when Requiem was just a thought? When you created a world just to spite your broken mind? When you got plunged into a half-composed parallel universe you never thought you’d see? Then chose to write your book about the other side of the planet? The betrayal still stings, and I start running to the man whose name I can not remember.

He turns, and those great blue eyes sparkle with joy, and then I’m falling through another door in the universe.

Landscapes flash before my eyes—Remember the world of killer bats? Remember when you fell in love? Remember when you poured out your heart and soul in a sandy volleyball court? Remember when you shattered and love picked you back up again? Remember the world of the fire magic? Remember the NanoFic you started but never finished? Remember Peridot? Those creepy children? Stories flash past too quickly to keep up with, and I plummet through doors.

Yet then it stops, plunging me into a world where the mountains tower far above my head, the sun can never be found, and the sand goes on forever. “No!” I scream. Remember when you lost yourself here? Remember how many characters you killed? Remember when you killed your soul here? Remember when you gave in? Gregarious circles in the sky above me, great black wings blocking out what little light remains, and still I scream at the universe. “No! You can not leave me here!” Remember the pain you caused? The people you broke? The people who broke you? You couldn’t save them. You couldn’t even save yourself. The voices crush me, and I fall shivering to the ground, searching vainly in the sand for some sort of light to dispel the darkness with. You will never be able to save them. You are worthless. Useless. Pathetic. Incompetent. Why did you want to go home? You don’t belong there anymore. You don’t belong anywhere but here.

The Fische start to creep towards me again, and I crawl backwards. “No,” I voice, trembling. “This is not my home. I refuse. It will never be home.”

You don’t have a home anymore.

“Then I will make one,” I announce, and I push past my fantasies, wandering.

Beyond my fantasies there is nothing: only vast emptiness devoid of light, sound, and movement. Miraculously, the voices fall silent—there’s nothing to remember when nothing has ever happened. I lift my hand to create a new world, but it falls back against my side again, limp. What good would it do to create another world instead of living in the hundreds I have already been given? For an instant, I imagine a million different ways to repaint my mental walls, but I give up, for no world could ever satisfy me.

Someone slams on a horn, a jarring sound that yanks me from my reverie. I find myself watching the sky, raindrops touching my tongue. Despite only the brief moments I spent on other worlds, my raincoat is soaked and a black SUV is swerving to a stop in front of me. That's what I need, I think abesently. A world where it's always raining.

I look down and meet the eyes of the driver. Wordlessly, I move off the main road, stepping onto the nearest sidewalk.

“Hey!”

I turn.

A pause. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “But I’m going.”

The driver wants to ask another question, but I don’t give him the time, and I keep walking, wandering.