#testmyreality

23/2/2013 12:30 AM

Cassidy died yesterday. I haven't told anybody the reason for my distress. Hell, I'm still trying to tell myself. I've seen people die before, people close to me, been to their funerals-- So why does this one hurt so much?

Wendy keeps asking me about it. I might tell her later. Dunno how she'll take it. My head hurts and I'm nauseous.

23/2/2013 1:47 PM

I told her. Wendy, that is. She hasn't spoken a word so far. She touched my shoulder, hugged me. She's making dinner now.

I think it's her way of saying "I'm sorry."

24/2/2013 4:02 AM

I woke up because I thought I heard her-- Cas-- trying to wake me up. She was calling my name, but it sounded so far away. Can't get back to sleep.

I'm not alone.

24/2/2013 11:15 PM

She’s there. I saw her. She laughed when I jumped, slugged me in the arm, called me a wimp when I yelped. Her touch was as cold as gunmetal and death. I blinked and she was gone, leaving a sickly, feverish aura in her wake. Her voice remained.

I still don’t believe in ghosts.

26/2/2013 6:30 AM

She took it upon herself to open every drawer and cupboard in the house. When I came downstairs, she was sitting on the counter. Smiling. Smirking. It looked eerie, considering she was still covered in her own blood. Steely blue eyes without a life, seeing all and yet seeing nothing.

I couldn't help it. I croaked her name and blinked. When my eyes opened again, she was hardly three inches from my face. I fell backwards. She was gone again.

28/2/2013 9:41 PM

I'm going crazy.

She thinks so too.

1/3/2013 11:26 PM

I'm sorry that I couldn't help you, Cas, I'm so fucking sorry. And-- And I know you keep trying to say that it isn't my fault but--

IF IT ISN'T MY FAULT THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE

17/5/2013 1:09 AM

She's still here. I'm beginning to think that it really was my fault.

--

The journals stopped after that. He had to tear out every one of those entries and move them to a separate journal so that Wendy wouldn't see when she did her routinely checks to see if his mental process was stable still.

To her, Everett was as sane as could be.

He would know otherwise. And so would Cassidy.

Christmas Eve, he chose to visit her grave. May as well, right? Already has her spirit hanging around his house, popping in when she wants to, opening and closing cupboards to create that sort of Sixth Sense feeling. Ha ha ha. Very funny, Cas.

Everett lights a cigarette, snuffs the match in the fine blanket of slow that's settled at the front of the cemetery. Pushes open the wrought iron gates, and follows the groundskeeper to her plot. The man is kind enough to give him his time with the black marble headstone alone.

And despite how cold it is, despite the fact he's shivering and sneezing and can feel the flu creeping up on him with every second he remains tracing the silvery engravings on her headstone with his fingertips, he will not leave. Stays well into 9:30 at night.

He hears her voice again. Not your fault.

It's his fault.

Shut up. Not your fault.

Cassidy, can we not do this tonight?

"Look," he says at last, voice breaking. Everett raises his hands to his ears, covering them, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. He can feel her presence, all energy-- dark and light alike-- radiant, scent of pine and wisteria hanging in the air. "Cas, I'm not saying you're a ghost."

He swallows thickly.