Friday’s Local Ghosts Exorcism- Publish My Suicide Note in a Limited Edition Zine #2

bed copy

She says there’s a room in our house that is haunted.She grew up in a Catholic family, her mother and mother’s mother have had plenty of haunted rooms. They would invite priests or bless the room themselves. It was common, I guess. I hear about it a lot, but I don’t like to think of it.

The room in my house that might be haunted, is the one that my father used to get up in, each morning before work he’d have his coffee and cigarettes in that room. My mother would wake up with him, early, although she stayed home all day. They would have their coffee and talk and watch the weather and be old and past the point of love. They loved each other more than anything, but I watched it happen. They transcended love and eventually just became part of one another. Needing each other.

It is the room where my mother spent her final weeks, bedridden. My father, by her side. Nurses and doctors would come over every once in a while, to give her pills, or to check pressures.

Eventually, the nurses’ and doctors’ visits decreased, I was told that I should say my final words to her. My dad left me alone, in my room, and I thought for a solid twenty minutes, I had nothing to say. I walked downstairs into that dimly lit room and I told her, I loved her. She couldn’t talk, but she squeezed my hand telling me she’d heard. I don’t know what she was thinking, or if she could hear me crying. The rest of what I said to her was complete lies. She squeezed my hand.

A day later, my dad woke me up, he was sitting on the foot of my bed, crying, and he told me. I left my house immediately and I drove to —

She says there is a room in our house that is haunted. I tell her not to be stupid. Sometimes, I tell her I don’t want to talk about it.

I never tell her I know.

That room is so cold now. For about a year after my mom died, I would have terrible nightmares about it. My father would describe his dreams, the ones in which mom appeared, and they would be so different from mine. His dreams were pleasant and cheerful.

“I saw Mom again last night.” And he would have a huge smile on his face.

Whenever I saw Mom during dreams, something terrible would happen, and I would wake up at three A.M. each time. After that, I had lost my ability to sleep.

It’s been almost a year, and I still run into that room yelling for her, because I have something to tell her. Before, I realize that I can’t talk to her anymore, that I’ll never be able to talk to her again.

She says I should get the house blessed, but I would never do that to my father. When he passes, I can pray and hope and wish with all my heart and soul, that my mother will be there to lead him to whatever, but I will never get that room blessed. I will spread his ashes where we spread her ashes. I will do what I can, I guess. I can’t tell if it’s a ghost story or a love letter.

But, my father still wakes up and has coffee at five A.M. before he goes to work, and sometimes when I can’t sleep, I hear him talking. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I can imagine.

His eyes are shut, there are still pillows lining a porch chair with her in it, there are still two cups of warm coffee, there are still two lit cigarettes being smoked at the same time, and it is either going to be cold or warm outside, so bundle up or wear short sleeves. We need to do something about our son. He is so smart, but he is wasting his life, and I think he’s on drugs, okay, maybe not on drugs, but if we could get him into a college. I made you a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow at noon, but if you start to feel better you don’t have to go. Here I’ll go fill up your coffee, I have time for another cup, I don’t want to go either, haha, but it’s going to be a busy day, because of the sale. So, I have to get going soon sweetheart. I’ll see you when I get home, okay? I love you, muah, goodbye.

I love you, muah, goodbye.

Every love story has a happy ending, but sometimes you have to wait until you’re both gone, to experience it.

This story was written by Cody Roggio.

You know what’s easier than writing thought provoking works that speak to our readers? Stealing them. That’s why every Friday we’ll be lifting a piece from our brotherly lovelies over at Local Ghosts. Maybe, so you can get a chance to expand your mind, or possibly so we can get a chance to lay around and do nothing. Enjoy.


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