|COME ∆ LITTLE CLOSER|

I apologize ahead of time if my story is jumbled, if it doesn't make much sense. I can hardly form proper sentences, so one can't expect my story telling to be much better.

All I have are tiny snippets of memories; live action pieces of what my life once was. I can't make much sense of any of it, because most of my memories are like five seconds long. I can't gather much in five seconds, but some are pretty easy to figure out what was going on in them. Some, I have absolutely no idea, but I try to fill in the blanks with educated guesses. Not a trustworthy plan, I know, but at least it occupies my time until I can gather more information.

I'm not afraid in this place that I reside now, just mostly frustrated; so many questions float around like tiny spirits all on their own. I can't satisfy them, I have no answers to spare.

My name was Harley. Well, I guess it still is, if names even matter here. That's all I've got for now, plain Harley. It's such a simple name, but it has a certain ring to it I think. I only know my name because that's what my friend used to call me. I remember I fell one day, and she said "Get up Harley " as she extended a helping hand. Her name slips from me now.

Who was Harley? Wouldn't I like to know... I can't remember what she looked like, there are no mirrors in the spirit world; reflections don't exist here.

I tried looking through photo albums at home; I can't alter any physical thing. That's perhaps the most frustrating thing of all; having something right in front of you, but you can't quite grasp it.

One would think that there would be framed pictures in their own home... But there isn't. Not a single one. Maybe I was an ugly child, or maybe they forgot me already. Probably.

The "spirit world" is hard to explain. It didn't even come with that name, I made it up. But anyway, I guess the best way to
describe it is like one of those one-way glass walls. I see everything in the physical world as it was when I left it, but like I mentioned before, I can't touch it. I can make myself appear to touch things, but I'm just hovering over it. Technically I could swipe right through it. I hover over my old bed and I pretend to pet my stuffed animals. I can't actually feel them, but I imagine their texture from my memories. They were soft, and fluffy.

I'm an outsider looking in, like a kid at a pet store that so desperately wants what's inside the glass. It sucks so bad being an onlooker; I just want to be a part, to belong. I want to feel needed, I want to be seen. Is being heard too much to ask for?

Thankfully, I have a really good imagination, otherwise I could never "live" like this without going crazy. I feel crazy though. It takes a lot out of me just to stay aware of things. I distract myself with exploring things and people.

People watching is my hobby now. There isn't much else to do. It's actually pretty entertaining, being a fly on the wall, or in my case, a ghost on the wall. People do crazy things, things they didn't think through clearly, things they don't think anyone else will notice, and my favorite, things that would embarrass the crap out of them if they knew I saw it. Although, who better to know your secrets than a ghost? It's not like I'll tell anyone...

I try to stay aware of things because I think I have to. If I'm not in some place, I'm in total darkness. Like super blackness, nothing is as dark as this is in the physical world. I think it's the place of nonexistence. It's where nothing is. It's smothering to be in that darkness, where there is no hope at all. I stay away from it as much as possible; I go anywhere besides there.

I don't know what I hope for anymore anyway, but I still like to have hope for the heck of it I guess.

Maybe this state I'm in is a purgatory of sorts, if that even exists. Am I waiting here to go to Heaven? If Heaven is an option, then that means Hell is too, right? Do I have to pass tests? The suspense is killing me. I laughed out loud at my own joke, as morbid as that may be. But hey, if I don't have laughter, then what do I have? Literally nothing, that's what.

I like to explore my old house even though I know every inch already. This is possibly the hundredth time I've been here since I became just a vapor. I think it's been a few days since my death, but I'm not really sure. Time doesn't exist here either, but then again, does it really exist in the physical world? Man made up words and called them days and months, then applied numbers to the rest, and we all just went with it. That's a deep thought right? Yeah, I have plenty of time for those...

I walked (hovered) through the upstairs hallway of my house now. It was night time in the human world. My parents were asleep downstairs. I moved as quietly as possible by habit, although I have no reason to; I couldn't make them hear me if I wanted to.

My room was as it usually is, perfectly clean and tidy. I don't remember if I left it that way the last time I could clean it, or if my parents had after my death.

One memory always arises when I step in this room, and I make my way to the jewelry box to act it out. I peer into every one of its tiny drawers, finding various pieces of jewelry. I don't know why I chose a jewelry box with glass-front drawers, but I'm glad I did because otherwise I would have no idea what was in the drawers.

The jewelry box gives me a weird feeling that I can't describe. I imagine myself as a moth flying towards the light. I've never understood their fascination with bright things before, but now I'm experiencing it. Unfortunately for me, things always end badly for the blinded bug.

I feel dumb that something so silly can grab my full attention, almost like I can't think for myself anymore. It's a terrible feeling, losing your mind.

Anyway, back to the jewelry box.

The only drawer that's different is the one at the bottom. In it is a folded piece of paper. My imagination goes crazy with wonder every time I see it. Was it a note from my mysterious boyfriend? It could be anything really. Heck, it could be a grocery list for all I know. That would be disappointing.

I decided to head back downstairs to check on my parents.

They were already in bed when I walked through the door. My mom snuggled close to my dad as they soundly slept. I'm glad that my death didn't tear them apart. They seem to be headed in the right direction.

I looked at all the baseball stuff on the shelves that occupied their bedroom. Trophies lined the walls, as well as plaques. My dad must have been a good player, maybe that's how we afforded such a large, nice house.

Inconveniently, none of the awards had his name on them. I wonder why that is? Wouldn't someone want their name on their achievements?

I noticed his baseball bat in the corner of the room propped up against the wall. It still looked old and even had old stains on it.

I looked to my parents one last time before leaving the house.

I sat on the green lawn of the mansion and looked through the foliage above to the stars, deciding where my next destination would be.