sappy short story about a ghost

a guest Aug 22nd, 2019 71 Never
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  1. I sit on the balcony, watching the raindrops fall onto the desolate concrete landscape below. I've been in this city for as long as I can remember. I'm sure once upon a time watching the tram pass by on it's clanky clonky tracks carrying it's passengers was entertaining, or at least interesting. But I've been staring at this same view for so long. Whether it be raining or snowing or blustery or whatever, it's not like anything changes. Day in, day out, nothing happens. Not in the afterlife.
  3. I maneuver my tail out from the railing of the balcony. It, much like the rest of me, has a dull white glow with a hint of red on the outside. The raindrops falling on it make for an interesting diffraction effect on the wall behind me. It doesn't rain *that* often, so I have a little bit of fun waving my arm about and watching the wall shimmer about before floating inside and closing the door.
  5. Being a ghost has it's ups and downs. On the upside, nobody expects you to pay rent. It's not exactly like they're running out of space. You also don't have to eat, either, because it's not as if we have muscles or bones. Of course I *could* eat if I wanted to experience the taste of something, and I *could* get a job if I was ever bored of the monotony of sitting around all day. Which, yeah, I was. I've explored every nook and cranny of every park within reasonable distance. I'm not interested by a whole lot in my room, not even the radio or the primitive computer I have.
  7. However, the last time I worked at a job, whenever and a half ago, didn't turn out so hot. I was a computer programmer, working with some others on some telecommunications software. Yes, we were effectively reinventing what we had already done back in the living world, but it's not as if we could take that with us. When we died, we came with our souls, the clothes on our backs, and one shoebox of keepsakes we got to pick out before we left forever. I forget who set up those rules, but I've been told there's very good reasons for it. That said I would have killed for a physics textbook when I was still working. ...that's not why i quit, though.
  9. I went to the corner of my apartment. In a cabinet, towards the bottom, was a dusty shoebox. I brushed it off, revealing a name I barely recognize as my own. I haven't gone by that name since I've died, and I'd rather keep it that way. I've tried to distance myself from this thing. It pains me to look at it. ...but i open the lid anyways. In it is a CD, a photograph, and several spiral-bound notebooks. I don't have anything to read the CD with, unfortunately. I took the shoebox over to my desk, turned on the lamp, and carefully got out the photograph.
  11. It was a photo of a young woman with pale skin, an absurd amount of curly auburn hair, and some cute freckles. She was smiling and waving "hello~!" to the camera, as if she was having the time of her life. Which, well, yes, she was. Because she's dead now. I flipped over the CD to the shiny side and looked at myself in the reflection. I looked a bit more abstract, a bit less defined, a bit less *present* than the woman in the photograph did, but otherwise there was an uncanny similarity. Not surprising, because she was me. A mere two weeks before she... before *I* died.
  13. I flipped to the last written page of the last notebook. In very scrawly handwriting was what appeared to be a desperate plea. "I'm tired of fucking living", she wrote, "I'm tired of this fucking day in day out bullshit. Same stupid job, same stupid city, same fucking world. I don't give a shit about it. About any of it. They tell me at work that if I don't do this or that then the project will fail, but fuck the project. It gets launched, a couple people above me make a few quick bucks, I still feel like crap, world goes round. I'm done."
  15. I sigh and close the notebook. You know why I quit that job? Same. Bullshit. Turns out, nothing changes when you're dead, not really. If anything things become worse. I miss my hair, I miss the friends I had and neglected, I miss that city. And here I am in purgatory, reliving the worst time of my life until the end of eternity.
  17. Fucking hell. I'm done moping around. I'm going to fix this shit. ...once i get dressed. eventually. ngah. effort.
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