A Flick of the Wrist

She sobs. That’s all she’s been doing all night, all morning, all the time. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. I want to comfort her, but I can’t because she doesn’t realize my presence. I’m not sure if I’m really even here, I’m not sure if this is even reality, but it’s all I have to remind me of living so I’ll cope. I walk over to her, my mother, and place a hand on her back, but she doesn’t feel it. If she does feel it, she doesn’t acknowledge it. I wonder if she even feels the slightest pressure, maybe even a slight breeze where I touch her back, but I doubt it.

I think I’m a ghost. I’ve never believed in ghosts, but my opinion on that matter is changing. I’m not a sheet, a blur of white like you would expect. I see myself in full color, I’m not the least bit translucent. I can’t walk through walls, and I feel. I feel objects, I feel emotions, I feel pain. But I leave no mark. Everything is set, set in stone. I can push and push, but nothing moves. It’s as if the world doesn’t recognize me. It’s rejecting me like a surface piercing, it knows I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be alive, I’m not supposed to be dead. I’m not supposed to be a ghost, and the world knows.

Isabel cries in the next room, and my mom stands up. My hand falls from her back, leaving me feeling worse than before. She wipes her eyes, only to have fresh tears stream down. She slowly walks out, still crying, to the eighteen-month-old’s room to see what she needs, and I sit down on her bed. I fuck everything up. Alycia the fuck up, that’s what they should call me. I can’t even give myself the hurt I deserve without fucking up, without ruining everything and slaughtering myself.

I never meant to fuck it all up.