When I opened my eyes--not my actual eyes, my spirit eyes--I was looking down at my body; to say my death looked horrifying was indeed an understatement. My arms were ripped open from the vertical cuts I had inflected upon myself and I could almost see bone. I don't remember sinking the blade in that far. I thought, surprised. Both arms were stained red, as was the floor beneath; it all blended into one sopping mess because the blood wasn't even dry yet. The knife was lying down on the tile floor near my scarlet colored hand--I guess I had died from blood loss even before I fell to the ground. But that was my initial intention, wasn't it? To die as quickly as possible before I'd think to stop myself. Where I had dragged the knife across my neck looked even worse: I could tell I had hit my jugular because the dark red liquid still spilled ever-so-slowly around my head, soaking into my hair and making it appear black. The iron stench of it all wafted itself through my nostrils, and for some reason I enjoyed it. Death was everywhere.

And I couldn't be more pleased with myself.

That might sound morbid, twisted, fucked up, and just plain disgusting, but it's true. I did it.

I looked down at my own spirit body then, a satisfied smirk spreading across my face. I was an exact mirror of the dead body before me....except for the fact that I was slightly transparent. The wounds on my arms and neck didn't hurt or bleed. I couldn't feel my heart beat, and at first that startled me. But then I remembered, Oh, yeah, I'm dead. I'll get used to this sooner or later. I'll have to; I have no other choice.

I knelt down to run my spirit hand through my human hair, but where I would have felt the stickiness of the blood, my fingers went right through. Of course. Could I be any more stupid? I knew this would happen. I'd witnessed spirits walking straight though doors and brick walls and trees and even my own body. I knew better.

I was interrupted by a sudden jerking of the front door knob, and I couldn't help but feel a bit panicked. I hadn't prepared myself to see my mothers reaction to this, and if I had a heartbeat I knew for a fact that I'd be able to hear it through my ears. Because of my being dead and all, my hearing, I found out then, was practically superhuman. It was superhuman; I could hear everything perfectly, all down to the little moles digging their way through the dirt beneath my house. It was kind of cool. But soon I'd say otherwise.

"I'm hoooome!" My mom sang as she stepped through the doorway. I could hear her slide her shoes off, set her keys down on the coffee table in our living room, and shuffle her way into the kitchen, light on her feet.

There was no answer.

When the house was silent for more than a minute, I could hear her rush herself through the hallways leading to my room. I had always answered in the past, no matter what I was doing, so this was....out of the ordinary. I decided the last thing I wanted to see was her reaction to my bloody, cut up corpse, so I quickly rose off of my feet and ran out into the hallway. She ended up running right through me, and I'll admit, it was probably one of the strangest things I've ever felt. If...it's even something that a ghost can feel. I expected her to crash into me, so instinctively I flinched. But she kept on running. She dashed right past the bathroom, even with the door open, and she burst into my room. It was empty, the TV still on and my DVD of Paranormal State back to the Main Menu screen. I watched her as she her face fell, her dark hair seeming to wash her face out and make her pale. I wasn't in my room. Where could I be, then? She whipped around, utter terror in her expression. "ANNIKA!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. Running back into the living room and through the kitchen, she checked the back porch. I wasn't there either. By this time, she was hyperventilating and crying her eyes out, mascara streaming down her face. Finally, she went back through the hallway and to the bathroom.

And that's when she saw me.

Her precious little daughter, torn to shreds and covered in blood on her bathroom floor.

She immediately fell down to her knees, her head in her hands, screaming and thrashing her arms and bawling. I stood behind her and placed a hand on the back of her shoulder lightly, wishing that I could comfort her and tell her than I'm alright. I'm still here. I can hear and see you. You just can't hear and see me. Yet.

She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out her cell phone, dialing 911. When the operator picked up, I thought she was going to throw up. She gasped for air with practically every other word. "Hi--I--my-my daughter...She's...she's...cut herself. She's not...not breathing. PLEASE HELP ME!" More sobs. She stood up, the phone shaking in her grip, and turned around. Out of habit, I got out of her way. I looked up into her face; she was even more of a wreck. Her face was scrunched up into a ball and red and her emerald eyes were puffy from crying so hard. I was surprised that she hadn't thrown up yet. Especially from all the blood polluting the air.

Maybe what I did was wrong. But somehow, sitting here watching my mother practically die herself over my dead body, I feel at peace. I didn't do this because I wanted to die. In a way, maybe I had. But it wasn't a bad reason. I just...want to haunt Ryan a bit.

________________________________________________________________

An ambulance arrived and I stood close as they, yes, pronounced me dead. Thank God, I thought to myself. If I wasn't dead, then what the heck would I be? My mom called my dad at work, still crying hard as she tried her best at explaining everything that had happened. He rushed home, embracing my mother in a tight hug as soon as he burst through the door. He was crying too, of course. They both witnessed the paramedics wheeling my body--in a body bag of course--on a gurney and out to the ambulance. I didn't want to know what they'd do with my body, so I didn't bother coming along on the ride. I guess I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty, mainly because of the fact that I was an only child. My parents' only child killed herself. Why? Because she wants to fucking haunt a sexy ghost hunter. Not because she was depressed or hated her life or had no friends or didn't get that special gift for her sixteenth birthday that she swore she'd die if she wouldn't get. She was selfish. Selfish and caught up in the moment of something she'd never regret doing, no matter how guilty or bitchy she felt about actually committing the act.

I was to become Ryan Buell's best worst nightmare.