It's not your fault; none of it was your fault. You were doing nothing wrong, and you shouldn't let anyone, my family, my friends, the press, convince you otherwise. They are just sad, or are trying to be sensational; either way they don't understand what really happened. You don't understand what happened either. It happened to me, and even I barely understand what happened.
You were driving along County Road Seven. I know you saw me up ahead; I know you weren't really texting, or playing with the radio, or doing any of the other things people have accused you of. It was an accident. I didn't see it, but I haven’t seen you do any of those things since then.
I heard your car coming up behind me, and I tried to move off the road more, but then my peddles went loose. I think either the chain on my bike broke, or maybe it just slipped off. Either way it threw me off balance. Had I fallen to my right, everything would have been okay except for maybe some torn jeans, and bruises. Naturally I fell left.
I doubt this will make you feel any better, but I didn't feel it. I felt myself hit the ground, and then I was standing by the side of the road watching you skid to a halt. That stupid helmet didn't protect me at all.
I've been stuck with you ever since. Wherever you go, I go with you. I'm stuck in your house overnight, in your office during the day, and at the bar when you're there, which is entirely too often. When you're outside I seem to be able to go as far from you as I want, but since the only time you spend outside is going between your house and the bar I haven’t been able to do a really good distance test.
Those first few days were awful for you. I felt so bad for you, which probably seems stupid since I’m the one that died. Seeing you go through all of that though: the questions from the police, the media showing my parents calling you a murderer.
I am so sorry about my parents. They’re sad, you know? They don’t know what all of this has done to you. They don’t know that I’m basically okay, a little bored maybe, but not really suffering or anything. Of course I’m not really in that “better place” they mentioned either; your house if bigger than my flat, but it’s not that much better.
Thank God the police dropped the charges against you. With there being no witnesses out there, I thought they would try you anyway, but I guess they decided there wasn't enough evidence to bother prosecuting. Maybe they figured they would just let the media do their thing to you instead.
I'm worried about you, you know? It’s been a month now, and my parents are leaving you alone, and the media has moved on to ruining someone else’s life, but you don’t seem to be getting any better. You’re still drinking yourself to sleep most nights, and it’s not doing good things for your life.
I was in your boss’ office today, and he was talking about you to some stuffed shirt named Andy; his boss maybe? I haven’t really figured out your whole office structure yet. Anyway, they were talking about your work performance, and it wasn't good. They know you’re hurting, but if you don’t get your crap together soon, they’re going to fire you.
You really need to stop crawling into that bottle. I’d stop you myself if I could.
Honestly, the most frustrating thing about being a ghost, well, one of the most frustrating things, is not being able to interact with you. It’s almost like you’re on one side of a window, and I’m on the outside looking in.
No, that’s not right. It’s like being Ebenezer Scrooge when he was with the Ghost of Christmas Past. I can walk all around you, around your house, but I can’t affect much of anything. I can almost touch you; I know you feel it when I try. I see the goose bumps, and you looking around for the source of the breeze,
but that’s it so far.
I think I was able to knock a pen off of your boss’ desk today though. I was trying to knock off his coffee mug, but the pen did roll off onto the floor. I’m pretty sure I did it.
It seems like being able to interact with the living world is something I do with some ghostly equivalent of a muscle, so the more I work at it, the stronger I get. Hopefully it will just be a matter of time before I
can talk to you directly instead of when you’re asleep.
Not that I know if you’re hearing me or not now, but I saw it in a movie once where the guy was able to talk to his wife while she was asleep, and it’s not like I have anything better to do . I haven’t seen any other ghosts around to talk to, I don’t sleep, you don’t leave the TV on, and it’s not like I can go read a book or something.
Maybe I’ll start trying to work your TV. I promise to keep the volume on it low so it won’t disturb you.
Oh, I forgot to tell you; when we are at the bar earlier, I think the bartender saw me. He had his back to you, and it looked like he saw me in the mirror. He turned to face me, and got this really confused look on his face. He looked around, and over the bar to the floor; almost put his head through me trying to see where I went.
If you can hear me, which I kind of doubt given how much you drank tonight, I hope it doesn't bother your sleep. I don’t want to bother you, but the nights are the worst. It gets so lonely sometimes, and just starting out the window without being able to go outside is practically torture.
I've been wondering if this is a punishment for me. In books and movies, usually a ghost has some unfinished business to attend to: vengeance, saying good bye, something like that. I don’t feel I need about anything, and even if I did, what could I do about it being dragged along everywhere that you go?
Maybe this is Hell, or at least my Hell. I mean, I thought I was a pretty good person, but being sentenced
to hang around with you while not being able to even hold a conversation doesn't seem like much of a reward for a good life lived.
Or maybe I’m just being melodramatic. That seems pretty likely.
Well, I guess I’ll
shut up for a while; let you rest peacefully. I’ll go work on moving things and
making myself visible so that we can communicate. I only hope I’m able to get
through to you before you destroy yourself.
Sweet dreams.