“I miss you,” he says from the couch.
“What do you miss?” I am confused and not sure why I’m sitting on my old loveseat in the Culver City house I left behind years ago. The couches are in the same position, facing each other. A giant mirror hangs above his couch. There are many mirrors here, yet they are void of any reflection.
“I miss playing music with you.”
“I miss parts of you,” I answer softly, looking at my feet, avoiding eye contact.
“The others aren’t like you.” His voice is scratchy and choked up. He holds back tears.
“What am I doing here?” I walk to the window and gaze at the front lawn. The front yard has turned into a vast sea of hills and valleys, stretching for miles.
“I asked you to come back.” He stands up and approaches me.
“I don’t want to be here.” I move closer to the front door.
“Let’s go for a ride.” He touches my shoulder.
“There’s nowhere to go.” I open the door.
“Don’t leave me,” He begs, with streams of tears rolling down his boyish cheeks.
“You were the one who left.” I exit the house and step into an empty gray silence that encases me like fog.
I walk into the desolate valley before me, carrying rocks in my hands. A familiar throbbing pulls at my throat and pulsates in my chest. Waves twist and swim in my stomach. Bitter bile fills my mouth. This pain is familiar. A thick cloud of eerie silence hangs over my head. The air is hazy and motionless like before a storm. I want the clouds to break open, split right down the middle. I squeeze the rocks tightly in my hands, slowly descending into the valley, dropping fragments from my clenched fists with each exhale. My hands are now empty. There is only open space before me. I am alone in the valley.
Note: I will be publishing Letters from the Dead in the next week or so, and wanted to share a sample of the work. The book contains 100 essays based on my dreams. Slightly different from my blog Simone Says..., yet still dark and disturbing.
Keep writing. It saves lives.