It’s been a week since she died.
As she walks on the street unnoticed, she treats the erratic sounds of the city like white noise. She hears overlapping conversations, none of which are of interest to her. It’s not like she can join, for her voice falls on deaf ears of the living. Even if she can, she can no longer relate.
The city is alive at night, an observation she discovers only after her passing. And she comes–almost every night–to try to blend in with the living as she ignores how heavy her heart feels.
She waits for the stoplight to change. But as she stares across the street, her eyes meet a young boy’s.
His smile is lost when the crowd begins to move.
“Wait,” her voice seemingly lost in conversations.
“…I can see you.”
She watches the crowd separate, and the young boy of seven years old reappears with the same smile.
Only this time he is holding a gun.
She feels no pain as the bullet pierces through her skull, her being disintegrating in a matter of seconds.
He lowers his armed hand and immediately blends in with the crowd, a ghost of a wicked smile on his lips.
It’s the best way to get the upper hand. Not when they are alone, but when they are unaware. Unaware of the game the dead are forced to play.
I was reading “The Girl From The Well” by Rin Chupeco, and a sudden scenario popped into my head. So, I wrote this on a whim. Any comments, likes, shares will be highly appreciated. Thanks for reading!