I was sitting at the window. There was broken glass at the bottom of the frame. The chair I was sitting on felt kind of off. Like it was always leaning back a little to the right.
An old newspaper was on the kitchen table. I had just purchased a gun. It was lying on the paper beside a woman's face.
I think I remember the story was about a woman who claimed she saw a ghost. My memory is foggy. I haven't read her story in quite a while. A wraith she called it, I think.
I'd never heard that word before reading her story. I'm familiar with wrath, but not wraith. I don't believe in ghosts. But it was interesting all the same.
Said she was kneeling at her bed praying for her daughter. I don't believe in god. But it was sad all the same. I vaguely remember the image of red bedsheets.
Said she could feel a presence behind her. I guess she couldn't bring herself to turn around. I can't say I blame her. I've done my fair share of evil deeds. And I've faced some ugly people.
Some ugly things. But going up against something you know nothing of --- well, that is something more serious. That got me thinking of when I was a child. Momma always drank in the afternoon.
She didn't seem real to me then, but the back of her hand did. After she would pass out, I'd usually watch cartoons. But, at some point, I got the idea to go through her room.
One afternoon, maybe two or three, she'd smacked my face purple on the right side. Then went in the kitchen. I heard her open something and then the familiar sound of desperate drinking.
Head aching. The swelling wasn't bad. She came into the living room and lied on the rug. I decided to go up stairs and do my investigation.
The silk sheets of the bed, blue, were bunched up on the right side. She hated sleeping on that side. The afternoon before, I'd seen a piece of paper in her underwear drawer. I read it.
I didn't understand it. I heard her waking from her escape, so I couldn't reread it. Anyway, opening the drawer of her dresser the second time, I got a feeling. A sense.
You know exactly what I mean. I could feel a presence behind me. And I couldn't bring myself to turn around. I pissed my pants if you want to know the truth.
I remember my fists clenched by my sides, head hanging. Tears. I didn't move for a good forty-minutes. I didn't want to go down stairs. I couldn't breathe at one point. My cheek ached more.
I could hear fabric moving at one point. Finally, I darted out her bedroom door and down the stairs and tripped over her body lying on the living room rug.
I understood what the piece of paper meant. I guess the woman in the newspaper said she just prayed for a good forty-minutes. And then the presence was gone. Just walked on out of there.
Said the creases created by her elbows disturbed the bedsheets. This chair still leans right. The gun by the woman in the newspaper still. I read momma's piece of paper from time to time.
All the same, I still don't understand.