Status: Finals are coming by and I need to get my grades up. I won't be updating this very much. I'm sorry. Bare with me.
We're Ghosts in a Hail of Bullets
Showing Scars
I was there. I was in my room. Only it wasn't my room. There was a different bed, dressers, and posters. It belonged to another person.
A blonde, curly haired boy sat on the edge of his bed, his back facing me. It mess of shaggy, yellow curls have him away. I stood in the back of the room, silent. This wasn't a time to intervene. This was something that I needed to see without acting the role of Tate's girlfriend or partner in crime. I had to witness this event with exact detail.
He just sat there for some time. I got so bored that I examined his breathing pattern and the way his shoulders would rise and fall. I tried to match in order to tell if he was calm, angry, upset, or happy. So far he seemed calm. I wanted to call out his name or wrap my arms around him from behind, but I knew better. An internal voice told me to stay unseen.
A SWAT team kicked down the door, followed by screaming from Tate's mother, Constance.
"He's just confused! He doesn't know what he's doing! Please let me talk to him!" she cried through the paper thin walls. The whole team blocked her way in and soon then surround the boy.
Tate didn't do a thing but stand up slowly, his hands in the arm. Their guns were aimed right at him, ready to fire. How did I feel about this? Scared. I practically crazy because I couldn't do anything about it.
There were no words to be exchanged at that moment. He said nothing to say. But he lifted one hand up higher than the other, extended his index and middle finger, along with his thumb, and pointed the gun-like gesture to his head, pretending to pull the trigger. A split second later he pulled out a gun from under his pillow and attempted to shoot down the SWAT team all on his own. His was out number and over powered. They had him down in four seconds.
I gasped and cried a little bit at the sight. He was covered in his own blood. It poured out of his mouth like red vomit.
A police officer rushed to his side as Tate struggled for air and clanged onto life.
"Why did you do it, kid?" the officer asked. It was a question that everyone wanted to know. But Tate was unable to speak. The officer would never know. He died only a second later in a pool off his blood. There were so many bullet holes in his chest. It all became so clear so fast. It hit me like a train. I was knocked back into reality by waking at seven at night.
The moon hung in my window like a small, white orb surrounded by bright, white dots. The sky was black and the street lights were on.
Tate stayed around. He sat on the edge of my bed with his hands in his face. He was crying.
Quietly and afraid I asked, "Are you okay?".
He turned around, his face surprisingly not stained with tears. His eyes were red, puffy, and watery.
"You know," he said. I thought he would vanish by now, but he actually stayed.
"I've known. I kind of figured it out," I replied. It wasn't what he wanted to hear but it wasn't something he was surprised to hear.
I sat up and reached over to wipe his tears away. It didn't help. They continued to fall like heavy rain. I leaned in and kissed him.
"I love you," I whispered as I parted from his cold lips. How did this not phase me? It was shocking.
Tate swallowed his sadness in large gulps, getting rid of his tears, and slowly calming down. I had to hold him for an hour and coon him.
"I don't know how it happened," he sighed, "You saw my memories,".
"I think I invaded your memories," I replied. That's what happened. I jumped into his memories like a story. Some how I involved myself in his memories and took place in them.
Once he was calm, I placed my hand on the shirt, gripped it, and lifted it up. I revealed his cheat and all of the bullet wounds. There had to be a dozen. They weren't bleeding or oozing blood, but they were open. As a spirit, I didn't expect them to heal. Violet's gashes made that perfectly clear.
"I'm hideous," Tate complained as he yanked his shirt back down and forced my hands away. It took me a moment to muster up the courage to oppose him, but I did it.
"You're not, Tate," I said, "I think you're perfect,". I didn't have to explain myself or define him in any special way.
He kissed me deeply with tears and all and we went from there.
A blonde, curly haired boy sat on the edge of his bed, his back facing me. It mess of shaggy, yellow curls have him away. I stood in the back of the room, silent. This wasn't a time to intervene. This was something that I needed to see without acting the role of Tate's girlfriend or partner in crime. I had to witness this event with exact detail.
He just sat there for some time. I got so bored that I examined his breathing pattern and the way his shoulders would rise and fall. I tried to match in order to tell if he was calm, angry, upset, or happy. So far he seemed calm. I wanted to call out his name or wrap my arms around him from behind, but I knew better. An internal voice told me to stay unseen.
A SWAT team kicked down the door, followed by screaming from Tate's mother, Constance.
"He's just confused! He doesn't know what he's doing! Please let me talk to him!" she cried through the paper thin walls. The whole team blocked her way in and soon then surround the boy.
Tate didn't do a thing but stand up slowly, his hands in the arm. Their guns were aimed right at him, ready to fire. How did I feel about this? Scared. I practically crazy because I couldn't do anything about it.
There were no words to be exchanged at that moment. He said nothing to say. But he lifted one hand up higher than the other, extended his index and middle finger, along with his thumb, and pointed the gun-like gesture to his head, pretending to pull the trigger. A split second later he pulled out a gun from under his pillow and attempted to shoot down the SWAT team all on his own. His was out number and over powered. They had him down in four seconds.
I gasped and cried a little bit at the sight. He was covered in his own blood. It poured out of his mouth like red vomit.
A police officer rushed to his side as Tate struggled for air and clanged onto life.
"Why did you do it, kid?" the officer asked. It was a question that everyone wanted to know. But Tate was unable to speak. The officer would never know. He died only a second later in a pool off his blood. There were so many bullet holes in his chest. It all became so clear so fast. It hit me like a train. I was knocked back into reality by waking at seven at night.
The moon hung in my window like a small, white orb surrounded by bright, white dots. The sky was black and the street lights were on.
Tate stayed around. He sat on the edge of my bed with his hands in his face. He was crying.
Quietly and afraid I asked, "Are you okay?".
He turned around, his face surprisingly not stained with tears. His eyes were red, puffy, and watery.
"You know," he said. I thought he would vanish by now, but he actually stayed.
"I've known. I kind of figured it out," I replied. It wasn't what he wanted to hear but it wasn't something he was surprised to hear.
I sat up and reached over to wipe his tears away. It didn't help. They continued to fall like heavy rain. I leaned in and kissed him.
"I love you," I whispered as I parted from his cold lips. How did this not phase me? It was shocking.
Tate swallowed his sadness in large gulps, getting rid of his tears, and slowly calming down. I had to hold him for an hour and coon him.
"I don't know how it happened," he sighed, "You saw my memories,".
"I think I invaded your memories," I replied. That's what happened. I jumped into his memories like a story. Some how I involved myself in his memories and took place in them.
Once he was calm, I placed my hand on the shirt, gripped it, and lifted it up. I revealed his cheat and all of the bullet wounds. There had to be a dozen. They weren't bleeding or oozing blood, but they were open. As a spirit, I didn't expect them to heal. Violet's gashes made that perfectly clear.
"I'm hideous," Tate complained as he yanked his shirt back down and forced my hands away. It took me a moment to muster up the courage to oppose him, but I did it.
"You're not, Tate," I said, "I think you're perfect,". I didn't have to explain myself or define him in any special way.
He kissed me deeply with tears and all and we went from there.