Story idea by @coldgentleman Can you create a story about a depressed boy who wanted to feel more alive? Basically, he wished to have more meaning and adrenaline to his life, but he asked for the wrong thing at the wrong place? Maybe like a graveyard? I don't know.

I read a book by Lemony Snicket way back when I was 14. It was called: A Series of Unfortunate Events. There was this quote that stuck with me. The quote goes, "If you have ever lost someone very important to you, then you already know how it feels; and if you haven't, you cannot possibly imagine it."

As I stand in line waiting to view my uncle's dead body, I realize this quote is a little more than true. I can't describe the pain. It feels like a chunk of my heart was ripped away from me.

My uncle Curtis was the only one who was there for me. My parents were divorced and I lived with a bi-polar mother who thought her problems were always more important than mines. They were divorced since I was nine. My mother ended up marrying some guy she met on the bus a few times. This guy hated my guts and I hated his. Needless to say, things were shit at home.

Before my uncle passed, I used to go to his house every day. He would take me to the park to play baseball, teach me how to drive, teach me how to cook, and just teach me about life in general. It was way more than what my parents had taught me. He was indeed my reason for me not giving up. My reason for not pushing the blade down deep enough and sliding it across my wrist when I was 15.

I'm 18 now, just so you know. Also, it's my turn to view the body.

I don't look at him right away, instead, I look at the baby blue casket and take a deep breath. I can't do this, but it's my last chance to say goodbye. My stomach feels like there are hundreds of rocks bringing it down. My knees are weak and I feel like I'm going to puke. All of this BEFORE I view the body.

I swallow the lump in my throat, then I look at my uncle. His eyes are sewed shut. His shoulders look stiff and too far raised up. His clothes are nice and well fit. His beard is shaped, making him look as sharp as a rock. His body looks cold and his skin was a different shade other than it had been before. He just looks so dead.

Needless to say, this is my first funeral, so I wasn't expecting how I would react. You probably think I kept along moving so the next person can view the body. No. I put two hands on the casket and my face dropped onto my hands. My cry came straight from the throat and there was this overwhelming power of grief and sadness that overtook what's left of my heart. People around me begin to cry harder as I pour out my heart and soul over his casket. I feel arms on me, trying to pry me away. I almost swing my arm around at someone, but I miss. It takes about four people to remove me away from the casket. They walk me to my seat, handing me some tissues along the way. I sit there, watching them view his body then shutting the casket after everyone in line finished viewing him.

***

He's buried in Saint Bernard's Christian Cemetary. It's about ten minutes away from my house by foot. As I lay in bed crying my eyes out, I can't help think about what he is doing now. Is he in heaven? Is there a heaven? Is he still in his grave? Is he just dead? Can he see me? Is he okay?

I punch my pillow again and again and again, aggravated that I don't know what's happening to him. It isn't fair. It just isn't fair. I think about every possible moment I can remember with him and all it does is punch me right in the heart again. If my depression wasn't bad before, it was just getting a whole lot worst.

***

As the days go by, I lay in bed. I haven't eaten. I haven't slept. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep only to wake up realizing that I will have to face another reality without my uncle. I quit my job at Target. I just couldn't keep a smile on my face and the tears out of my eyes.

Sometimes I would go out for a walk. They say that helps with depression. I say, fuck that. I tried everything to help with my depression, the pills, the therapist, friends, a hobby, and everything and anything. I guess everyone has their own time to heal, but I sure wasn't done healing. It seemed like each day I had my razor pressed to my wrist, wanting to end it all. Asking myself, why the hell am I still here.

It is until a month after my uncle's death, I decide to visit his grave.

I'm sitting next to my uncle's grave, talking to him about life. I ask him crazy questions, knowing I'd never get an answer.

"Curtis," I say. "What is it like in there?"

No answer.

"It sucks up here."

No reply.

"I miss you," I say, staring at the sky now. "Mom's lost her marbles and my step dad is the same jackass he's always been." I turn back to his grave. "Well, give me a sign. Are you okay? Am I going to be okay?"

My heart is racing now. I knew it is time for me to leave because I'm getting emotional again. Not just emotional, but angry. Why did I have to lose him? I stand up and face his grave. "Give me a sign that there is more to life than just dying! Should I keep going? Do I keep going? Curtis I don't want to live anymore. Give me a sign or something so I can keep going. A boost. I don't know if I can do this any longer."

There I am, reaching into my pocket for my blade. Yes, I do carry it around. In that moment, I'm ready to end my life. With tears in my eyes, I no longer have the desire to live. I wipe my tears and look at his grave and...

There's something staring at me now.

I drop the blade and the air in my lungs leave. There's this strange looking man of the sort staring at me behind my uncle's grave. He's gripping my the grave stone as he peers at me behind milk white eyes. I guess I can't say it's man, but it has human feautures, somewhat. It's skin is comepletely white, but not as white as the dot-sized eyes. It has limbs but they just look so...backwards. It looks as if someone took its legs, stomach, and neck and twisted them into a full 180.

Peeking out from its mouth, I can see small flat yellow teeth. As it breathes, I can see and hear its insides rattling around throughout its body. It isn't transparent, but I can see the veins slugging around. I can see its insides moving around in its stomach. I can hear the mushy sounds coming from its belly.

I run away, leaving my razor behind. I don't look back out of fear it could be watching me.

When I get home, I lock the door and make sure it's locked. I check all the empty rooms in my house and make sure all the windows are closed. I check my closet and underneath my bed. When I finally sit down, I question myself. Was I hallucinating? What had I seen back in the graveyard? What was it? Who was it? What did it want?

My blood pressure is overboard as I try and calm down. I lay in bed, shivering. I try and convince myself that it is nothing. I'm just struggling with grief. I have heard stories of people losing loved ones then claiming that they still see them around. I don't know if that was like this, but I hope it is the same thing, only that wasn't my loved one who I had seen.

I decide to try and sleep it off. I finally calm down. My eyes are heavy from crying and sleepless nights. I drift off into sleep, only to waken a few hours later by my door opening. The lights are off and I can make out a tall and dark silhouette standing in the doorway with its arms sprawled out. I clench my blanket almost over my chin.

Whatever is standing there starts making weird sounds with its mouth. It opens and closes it's mouth over and over again, making a soft click with its teeth.

I put the blanket over my head, telling myself that I'm seeing things. That I'm just grieving in the most difficult way. All my logic breaks away when I hear it walking towards me, then sitting on my bed.

"There there, little boy. There there, Johnny."

The words don't sound like they fit in his mouth. It sounds like a foreigner speaking English for the first time ever and having to say this as their first words.

The fucking thing knows my name. All color in my face is probably gone. I scream and when I do, I see the lights in my bedroom come on. My mother comes inside and yanks the sheets off of me. "What the hell!" She yells.

"Something was in my room," I stutter.

My mother sighs. "I have work in the morning and you're screaming just because you had a bad dream? Heck, get to sleep!" She walks away, leaving on my light and closing the door behind herself. I can hear my stepdad laughing purposely. He loves me getting into trouble with my mother.

I don't bother to sleep. Mostly because my closet door is slowly opening. I can make out a white hand inching out of the closet, however, it disappears after a few seconds and the closet closes shut.

***

Each day is the same. As I sleep, the thing with milk-white eyes sits next to me. Whenever I open my eyes, it leaves and hides in the closet. When I close my eyes again, it sits next to me. Sometimes...it even strokes my head from behind the sheets. It always says the same thing in that raspy, dry, and frightening voice.

"There there, little boy. There there, Johnny."

Then, one night I think about how this started. What did I say for this to happen?

Oh, now I remember.

"Give me a sign or something so I can keep going."

Was this my uncle's way of telling me that living was far more better than dying? Was this his way of telling me that it's not what we think on the other side? So many questions.

Ever since I had this thought, I stopped seeing milk-eyes. That's what I call it. However, I do see it sometimes. It's each and every time I pick up a razor. I can see it, from the corner of my eyes. I can hear it whispering as I put the razor down.

"There there, little boy. There there, Johnny."