The Mystic

Elizabeth didn't know when it had started, or how it had started. All she knew was that it had, and there was nothing she could do about it. Some days, it made her angry, and others, merely resigned. It had happened, and that was that.

She watched life go on after—her parents separated and fell in love with others. Her younger brother grew up and married a nurse.

But Elizabeth remained, forced to observe, but never to participate. That was the way things went. She never wondered why she was put through the pain of watching, for she saw no point. And even when the pain faded she didn't question. Elizabeth floated from day to day, feeling nothing, for she was no longer capable of it.

That is, until he came. For so many years, she had been invisible. The world had become deaf to her cries until they had ceased altogether. But he could hear her, and he could hear her. At last, she felt joy. Pain. Anger. Grief. She attempted to collapse into his arms, but she floated through him. He could see her, hear her, but he couldn't touch her. The pain returned, as strong as any injury she could no longer receive.

He became her friend. She told him everything, as any teenager would: for even if she was dead, she was a young girl, with the same desires for friendship. The fact that he was many years older than her mattered little—and so did the fact that he never told her anything. Throughout their conversations, he would mostly sit in silence with a half smile on his face.

In Elizabeth's eyes, he could do no wrong. Even when she caught him drinking, she blamed it on someone else. And when he passed out at her feet, she would stay with him until morning, even if she couldn't help.

He never told her anything, but she followed whenever she got the chance. He was a mystic, she learned: a real one. When he spoke to those still living, other spirits gathered around him. He was kind, gentle, and compassionate, but he spent his money on alcohol.

Elizabeth trailed after him one night, and rode in his car as best as she could. He had had one too many drinks. They talked, laughed, and joked. He had always been a cheerful drunk.

Headlights hit the windshield, and the car swerved abruptly, throwing Elizabeth on the road. She watched as it rolled and rolled. Windows shattered, and the top was crushed. When it finally stopped, she approached it.

Somehow, she pulled him out of the car. He was dying, and perhaps that was what allowed her to touch him. She held his hand, and listened to his last words: "I knew."

When he died, his spirit didn't remain, as hers had. He didn't die slowly from an illness, like her.

After his death, she finally cursed him, but not for his faults.

She cursed him for leaving her alone.


I've been experimenting as of late, and this is what came of it. Hope you liked it!