“Maureen? Maureen?”
I heard my voice stretch from by the door where I was standing to the darkness that lay ahead of me.
There was no sound of sprinklers that spat pathetic little drops onto well-manicured lawns. The “lark’s morning song” did not penetrate these ivory walls. Any children, carefree and jubilant, that may have been playing outside were not audible.
The only thing that I could hear was the obnoxious honking noises outside. My mind immediately drew out a picture of what was probably the cause of the ruckus.
I imagined cars backed up as far as humanly visible, and then some. In my mind I could see the stereotypical arrogant businessman, frustrated to be in what was once a flashy car, symbolic of his wealth, but was now a metal coffin with broken air conditioning and the sun beating down upon his sweaty face.
Man, would that be sweet, I thought.
Thinking of the sweaty man, I suddenly realized I myself was also feeling perspiration roll down the side of my face.
“Maureen?” I called out hoarsely. I cleared my throat.
Still no answer.
I sighed and headed towards the darkness in front of me; even with no light, I still knew her place like the back of my hand. Or, more appropriately, the front of my hand, since I seemed to find that more fascinating than the back.
I stopped at where I was certain there was a window and twisted the blinds open. Light hit me square in the face and I blinked several times to adjust my eyes.
It felt good to let some sunlight into the room. I absolutely loathed artificial light. Every time someone would flip on a light switch, my jaw would twitch in annoyance. After a friendly chat, I made sure they would not make that mistake again. Ever.
I looked back on my last thought and found myself rather irritated. It sounded so cliché.
I turned my gaze from the window to the wall on my right. Too bad I could not see the wall; feet were blocking my view.
Wait, feet?
Indeed a pair of feet dangled approximately eleven inches away from my shoulder. I would have thought twelve inches, were it not for the fact that if there was another reference to feet, I might have passed out.
My eyes ventured up two legs and a new found realization swept through my brain and I understood that a young woman was hanging from the ceiling.
Under ordinary circumstances, I might have screamed and leapt out the window. Then again, when is seeing someone hung ever ordinary?
No, I did not squeal. I did not tremble. I stood there, marveling at how she managed this.
Maureen’s tongue did not flap out grotesquely or even comically, because her mouth was closed. I could only guess that she did not break her neck, ending her life quickly, but was strangled, making her death slow and uncomfortable.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tipped over chair below Maureen. I reached for it, set it back up, and climbed on top of it. I looked her over and smiled.
This was the prettiest she had been in years. Maybe it was because she had finally shut up.
I pulled a piece of hair out of her face and pressed my lips to her forehead.
“Bye-bye Maureen,” I said.
Suddenly I found it hard to breathe. Something icy cold caught a hold of my throat and was determined to crush my windpipe. I attempted to draw in air but could not; the grip was tight. I felt dizzy and through my disorientation, I pried a pair of fingers off of me, and shoved whoever was attacking me. I pushed at a cost though; the force of it made me topple backwards. At the same moment I heard the chair crash down, I felt my backbone hit the tiled floor. Hard.
I closed my eyes in pain and a stream of obscenities poured out of my mouth. Then I heard laughter. I knew that laugh.
Wincing as I did so, I slowly moved up and forced my eyes open.
Maureen, still hanging by her neck, was somehow laughing. I had to admit, even I was unnerved by this.
“Maur-Maureen?” I was surprised that my voice cracked. That has not happened since I was sixteen.
“Hello Patch.”
“What-how-?”
“I committed suicide.”
As if I did not know.
“I kind of figured,” I said slowly, regaining my composure, “But how…you-talk-?” Forget composure, this was too weird.
“You know, I’m not sure. I thought I was dead,” Maureen said conversationally.
I thought so too…
I wanted to speak, but no words would come. Well, save for one.
“Ow.”
“Ow?” She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Ouch?” There really is little to say when a dead person is trying to chat.
“You sound like a moron.”
“Hey! Shut up,” I frowned, temporarily forgetting my shock.
“Patchy, you do. You honestly and truly sound like a moron.”
“Why am I even talking to you? You’re dead,” I said.
“And you’re still a snot nosed twerp.”
“For heaven’s sake! I’m twenty six!”
“But you act like a seven year old.”
“You’re dead!” I burst.
“See!” she said excitedly, “You haven’t grown up a bit!”
“You should talk! You tried to kill me!” I suddenly remembered her hands on my neck.
“Take a joke!” she said defensively, swaying slightly as her voice rose.
“Oh, pardon me if you trying to end my life is a joke. You didn’t seem very entertained. Should I scream next time so you can get some sick thrill our of it?” I spat a little as I took my fury out on her. I wiped my mouth and then shot her a dirty look.
“What?” Maureen said, observing my expression, “Don’t blame me for you spitting. You’re the nasty one here.”
“Excuse me?” I widened my eyes, deeply offended, “You have filthy fingernails and you’re accusing me of being disgusting?”
Maureen, obviously still hanging, lifted one of her hands up and chewed on a nail. It was a nervous habit she had whenever I commented on that. Oh, how I love to torture her.
Wow, my backbone really did hurt though.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I said as I slowly rose to my feet.
Again, more laughter. Apparently there was something jocular in the way I stood up. Or, perhaps, it was just Maureen being the sadistic witch she normally was.
“Even dead, you’re still annoying beyond comparison,” I snarled. I rubbed my sore spot. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
“And even at twenty six, you’re still my moody little brother,” she jeered.
“I did something with my life, thank you very much.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She put her hand on her hip. I tried not to crack up. If you saw your dead sister who, while hanging by her throat, with her hand there, you would try not to giggle as well.
Actually, looking back on that, it may not be that humorous.
“It means that-gosh I can’t say it. You look so ridiculous.” I really could not respond properly.
“Why?” Maureen’s brow wrinkled in anxiety. Women…
“Take your hand off of your waist.”
It was a luxurious thing for me to see her mental struggle. Take her hand off to look a bit more aesthetically pleasing? Or do not take off her hand to spite her brother?
Finally, she made her decision and took her hand off.
“Anyways…um…just out of curiosity…how the hell am I able to talk to you right now?” I asked randomly.
“How should I know?” Maureen snapped.
“Well, let me think. Uh, you’re dead!”
“So? Patch, you’re so stupid! This isn’t a movie where the character magically understands what happens to them! It’s complicated!”
“Okay. Then I’ll ask another question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you kill yourself?”
Maureen opened her mouth, as if to say something, but then closed it. She squinted in concentration, then finally answered, “I have no idea.”
For some reason, this severely annoyed me.
“How is that you have no idea as to why you killed yourself!” I shouted.
“Stop shouting! You’re hurting my head!” She rubbed her temples in a circular motion. I had no idea people actually did that.
“You’re dead Maureen! D-E-A-D! Dead! Why does your head even matter?!” My rage intensified.
“Oh, so now I don’t matter?” She seemed appalled by my comment.
To be honest, under normal circumstances (keep in mind, they are not), I would have told her she does matter, but I could care less at the moment.
“Stop trying to sidetrack me! Why don’t you know why you committed suicide?”
“I just don’t okay?” I was stupid! I hated life? Is that what you want to hear?” Maureen burst.
“No, I want to know exactly why you did it! Tell me!” Frustration and curiosity had the best of me, I am sorry to say.
“Piss off!” She was getting so worked up that her whole body swung back and forth in midair. Again, I had to repress laughter. Laughing might not be the most felicitous thing to do, but I still had the urge.
“You’re always so nosy! Why can’t you leave me be?” she continued, body still swaying like a leaf in the breeze.
At this point, it just did not matter anymore. I chuckled. This was so ludicrous. I was arguing with my dead sister and she was swinging around as she yelled at me.
If anyone ever wrote down this experience, I would give them much applause, for no one could ever have the guts to write something this idiotic. No real writer would ever even think to put down such a stupid idea on paper.
As my chuckles crescendoed into hysterical laughter, Maureen’s shouts died. I did not even stop to wonder why. This was too damn funny.
At some point, (I cannot recall if it was seconds or minutes after I started verbalizing my amusement), I felt the most horrendous, brief pain in the back of my head. I had never known pain to be so excruciating. But I did not even have time to understand the pain, because everything went dark.
...