Every night is the same.
Her poor ghost shrieking, begging to be let go-
To be free-free from the same old nightmare.
I – I,too, want this; I want to be free.
Free from this guilt . . . the guilt that follows me everywhere.
But . . . why do I feel so guilty?
Why do these nightmares keep reoccurring?
Why am I questioning my motives?
W – what’s happening to me?
Am I regretting this?
I must be going insane.
I did what was right for her,
– For us. They told me so.
They told me that she wouldn’t feel a thing,
That she’d finally be at peace, and love me like she did when we were younger.
I don’t know why I’m second guessing this.
I planned for so long, and had everything ready.
There is no reason for me to feel like this.
Yeah . . . I did this for a good cause,
She’d be thanking me if she was still alive.
Yeah – IF she was still alive, but she isn’t . . .
She isn’t.
This feeling again . . . I – I –
I DON’T FEEL GUILTY!
IT ISN’T MY FAULT; THEY TOLD ME TO!
I want to wake up from this nightmare now.
I want to see her in the morning, standing at the counter,
Eating her breakfast for the day.
Yeah, this is all a dream – a bad one – but still a dream.
I didn’t actually kill my sister. . .
Right?
She isn’t dead . . . her ghost isn’t haunting me at any given moment.
Right?
I haven’t lost my mind?
Not yet — please let me wake up.
I need to wake up now. This isn’t funny anymore.
THIS ISN’T FUNNY ANYMORE!!
BETH—
BETH PLEASE
I’M SO SORRY!
PLEASE!
I’m sorry . . . please forgive me.
I don’t know why I did this to you,
Something in me said I should . . .
Why did I listen to it?
I don’t remember when I started laughing . . .
Honestly, I don’t remember a lot of what I did after.
All I know is that I wasn’t in my room.
I wasn’t in my house. I don’t know where I was going . . .
My body was on autopilot; when it finally stopped I realized where I stood.
I was in front of her grave,
Reaching out my hand, I set it on top of her tombstone.
The words began pouring out of my mouth.
I don’t remember everything I said, but one thing I do remember is . . .
Asking a question.
I asked . . . “What’s it like being dead?”
