|
Entry one-eighteen: Diary of a Deadman |
|
|
|
|
|
|
I wrote this as a short story, there's no more to it than what it is. Enjoy! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Data entry: Microsoft word Username: COMPUTERLOG Password: !overridden! Logging in, please wait... <log successful> Welcome, Admin.
I am not dead. Nor am I alive. But I'm not a zombie, no, not at all. For those of you who read this, you won't have to worry about a zombie uprising. You should be more worried if you left the oven on. Onto my point. I'm not quite sure what to call myself. To some of you, you would call me a ghost or spirit. Others, a demon. I certainly have faced death, but never quite achieved dying fully. I still live in this body of mine. I can touch and move items, and I can still speak- although, it comes hard to do so sometimes. Some of you may wonder why I am typing this letter. I have more of a voice on this computer than I do out in the world. And I'd like it if someone out there would recognize me for once. Granted, I'm half dead. Most people wouldn't give a damn about me. I was told when I was a young child that I was special. But isn't every child special? Aren't they always told that for false hopes that possibly, maybe they aren't really special? I'm not talking about that retardant "special" that some of you use. Most children turn out to be a normal, human beings that take life in a very serious manner. I don't understand why people take life so seriously- no one comes out alive, after all. Excuse my rambling, whomever may be reading this. Obviously, I really was a special child. All through my life, I saw things that no one else seemed to noticed. Little bits of dust that seemed to gather themselves into a human form. A quiet voice calling out in the night. You know. Haunting-esq stuff. But it's like those... 'ghosts' were speaking out to me. Every time I saw or heard something such as that, a piece of me was torn away into the afterlife. Or at least it felt like it. And then came the day I died. I never thought I'd live to witness my own death. January 27th, 2005. I could sense it coming, so I decided to end it myself. I could feel the gun pointed to my head, ready to fire, hours before that person would pull the trigger. Someone warned me of it; who, I don't know, but I knew I was in grave danger. And that one warning tore the rest of myself away- there were two of me, you could say. My soul looking at me, and my body looking back. I didn't mind much, just went about my business for the day. I worked in the stereotypical office space, wasting my time away on typing out information or recollecting data on sold items, and occasionally wishing I could kill my co-workers due to their stupidity. That day was more stressful than usual. Obviously, some moron in the head department hit the wrong button and deleted all of our information on what was in stock. More like they were drunk and wasn't looking at what they were doing. And guess who had to go out across the state to re-write the serial numbers on each item? Yep. Me. It's always me who gets stuck with the cruddy jobs. I'm on my way down the interstate when some bumbling buffoon in front of me throws some metallic object out of their window. And with my luck, the object lands right in front of my wheel and I hear a ear-shattering scream of the high pressure air exploding out of the tire. Acting quick, I maneuver my way through the what seemed like a dozen lanes of traffic and pull over, horns blaring at me. As soon as my car settles, I slide out to take a better look at the tire. Whatever that idiot had thrown, it tore it nearly to shreds. I exhilarated a deep sigh, frustrated as all hell, and pulled the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. I went to stand by the rail and lit one up. That's when I felt the gun press against my head. Broad daylight, and this idiot thinks he can get away with murder. But when I turned, it was no human. It was.. A man. But he looked very pale, very dead, so to speak. His eyes bore right into my skull. Again, thinking quick, I jump up onto the rail. I'd rather kill myself than have someone else do it for me. He raised the gun higher as I stood. I leaned back a little. He tugged the trigger intimidatingly. I felt myself starting to loose balance. It was then that I could see my other half, my soul, running to the rail. The man pulled the trigger, and I fell. Not from the impact, no, but on my own. As my back arched backwards, I felt the bullet whiz over my head... and then I was looking at myself falling. I was looking through my soul's eyes. That b*****d didn't bother to try and save me, no, she just wanted to watch me fall. And boy, when I landed, it was MESSY. They never found a body. But why? How could they not? Well it turns out that my soul came back to me, cleaned me up, and re-entered my body. I moved around quite a bit to get my bearings, and realized something. "Holy s**t. I'm dead," I muttered to myself. I ran, as far as I could. But whenever I tried to get attention, I got none. I was a living ghost. And so here I sit, typing away on some persons computer, hoping that someone will take notice that I'm here. Maybe I'll stick around in this house for a little while. It's nice here. Seems like a family lives here; I'll be sure not to bother the children. And hey. Being half-dead isn't so bad. I mean, I don't have to bother with idiots anymore. <saving data> <entry saved> Log out? Y/N User has logged out. <data end> ************************************** User has terminated computer. **************************************
XxFragmented_RealityxX · Thu Aug 27, 2009 @ 04:37am · 0 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|