Ahoy sailor!
Welcome to another edition of This Should Have Been an Email. A biweekly publication where I masterfully write about everything and nothing at all.
Please, do not confuse this with a newsletter because there is nothing newsworthy here. At best, these are just “letters” addressed to whoever fancies doing a bit more reading and less doomscrolling.
Last Wednesday, I wrote about the value of honest journaling and how I wanted to use these letters as a vehicle to explore more profound emotions. You can click here to check that out.
As I promised then, here is the first short story which may (or may not) be inspired by true events (*wink wink*). However, in the spirit of transparency, I must confess that I almost didn’t write this.
Let me explain why.
Put simply, I could not find the right angle to tell this story while staying true to my feelings. I must have started 10 different versions of it and not a single one felt “right”. To protect myself, I was building a literary barricade so strong that no one could get in. Unfortunately, nothing could get out either. I was stuck inside the trenches, fighting a war in my own head.
Eventually, I found the courage to crawl underneath the barbed wire, to be vulnerable for a little while and write something. The story turned out to be average at best, but the emotional journey I experienced was extraordinary.
Thankfully, I am only writing these stories once a month. I cannot put myself through this every week!
Welp, that’s too much of an epilogue. Shall we get started?
7 Years of Normality
When I was 8 or 9, a friend died. I don’t even have to close my eyes anymore to go back to that day.
There I am, in the middle of the kitchen, alone, playing with car toys in absolute silence. All the adults have locked themselves in another room to whisper and sob.
I am thinking that maybe if I stay really quiet, I can hear what they are saying. Do they know what happened to my friend Jack?
Honestly, I would have preferred to hear it from Jack himself, but he was a ghost now. Later, I realised that ghosts are terrible communicators so getting any information from Jack’s ghosts became an impossible task. It would have been easier to teach a monkey to sing.
Our conversations were very one-sided: I did all the talking and he would just listen. Occasionally, he would point at something or do a strange face in reaction to something I said. Apart from that, he just stood there, looking confused and out of place.
Aren’t ghosts supposed to say “boo-hoooo”, as a minimum? Even at that, he was utterly useless. He must have missed the class of Ghosting 101.
Losing a good friend and getting a socially-awkward ghost in return was incredibly frustrating. Soon, his apparitions started to mean nothing to me - I wouldn’t even notice he was there. It became normal to ignore him and I think the adults did the same thing.
Not only they ignored his spirit, but they also stopped saying his name. No one ever shared a picture or told a story with Jack in it.
Neither did I.
Jack’s ghost never complained though, at least not in a way that I could see. Maybe he did, but I didn’t get the message which I would blame on his poor communication skills.
I have seen movies, like The Sixth Sense, where some ghosts feel misunderstood and start to misbehave. But not Jack. Even dead, he was quiet and annoyingly polite.
Many times, I saw him step out of someone’s way, completely forgetting that people could walk right through him. Whenever we rode the subway, he never took a seat. Perhaps you don’t get tired when you are already dead?
We all became excellent at the “normality” game. Weeks, months and years went by in this new world where neither Jack nor his ghost was remembered. It was tricky at first, but eventually, pretending that my friend had never existed became second nature, as easy as breathing.
Jack didn’t complain.
He never did.
Ever.
Until one day…
He did.
I woke up one night, gasping for air and soaked in my own sweat. I tried to sit on my bed but I felt paralysed, only my eyes could move. I was desperately looking around, trying to understand what was happening. I could feel the muscles of my neck getting stiff.
I looked up and there he was, looking at me from the ceiling. Jack didn’t look like his usual self that night. His eyes were sad and bitter. Had someone done something to him?
I was asphyxiating. I wanted to scream and ask for help, but the words wouldn’t come out. I was wheezing like a hurt pig, feeling as if the weight of a car was pressing against my chest.
I fainted.
In the morning, I was furious but physically okay. What the fuck was that about, Jack? You wanted me to acknowledge you? Well, brace yourself, buddy. I will give you hell the next time I see you.
He must have known how I felt because he waited until I was alone that day to show up again.
I exploded.
Years of pretending he didn’t exist turned into an uncontrollable chain reaction of incendiary insults, grief and finger-pointing. I called him a coward, a traitor, a liar, a selfish prick, and other despicable things that I now regret. He said nothing, as usual, but his sad eyes turned happy for an instant before vanishing again.
Minutes later, Jack’s dad phoned me. The day after was the 10th of April, Jack’s birthday, and he wanted me to join him while he visited his son’s grave. So many years had gone by ignoring Jack’s existence, I even forgot his birthday.
I was not particularly close to this old man, even less after Jack’s death, but it was the first time in 7 years that someone dared to speak his name out loud to me.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. Jack almost killed me the other night and now his father asks me this. Seven years of nothing, of absolute collective amnesia, and now this? What was happening?
Hesitantly, I agreed to join him and immediately hung up the phone, as feelings of regret started to fill my mind.
Couldn’t everyone just fake normality for another decade? My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and memories and hypothetical conversations I could not have because my best friend’s ghost was a fucking mute.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next day, his dad drove the two of us to the cemetery. “Thank you for coming along”, he said as I jumped in the car and fastened my seat belt.
I hadn’t seen this man in ages. We didn’t say much on the way there as both of us were deep into our melancholic thoughts. I do remember thinking that he did look like a bald and chubby version of Jack.
“Is it far from here?” I asked, embarrassingly admitting that I didn’t even know where Jack was buried because my mum didn’t want me to attend the funeral service 7 years ago.
“30 minutes, no more than that” he replied. He was right, we got there 25 minutes after.
It was a glorious and windy Spring afternoon. Jack’s dad gave me a smile and then stepped outside in the direction of two graves in the middle of the field. They looked no different to all other tombs on the field.
I didn’t follow him immediately, I was still pondering what to do.
(Should I just stand there and be quiet? Should I make conversation? What if Jack shows up? I am going to lose my shit!)
I remained seated for a few minutes and watched Jack’s dad from the distance as he cleaned the graves, watered the flowers and cleared the wild weeds. He looked calm and peaceful, as a man who is practising the most therapeutic ritual on Earth.
Without noticing it, I found myself walking towards him and standing behind the man. He just went on about his chores without minding my presence, as I have been doing with Jack all this time.
After a few minutes, he put all his cleaning and weeding tools aside. I thought we were leaving, but we were far from it.
Jack’s dad started talking:
“I am sorry, dad, and I am sorry son. It’s been a while since I visited. The weed was getting a bit out of hand”.
I got a bit closer and managed to read the inscriptions on the gravestones:
Jack Palmer
1987 - 2003
Joshua Palmer
1940 - 2002
Jack’s dad kept talking:
“Have you had enough time to forgive me, Jack?”
He made a long pause and then continued, now almost sobbing:
“I am trying my best here, son, I swear to God… I am”. This time, his voice broke as he took both hands to his face. Like I had done yesterday, he also exploded, but with tears instead of insults.
(Did you know that crying is contagious?)
There I was, crying uncontrollably in front of my friends’ grave. The day before, I was overwhelmed with anger, but now, all of it had turned into profound sadness. I was wheezing and gasping for air like the other night. Jack’s dad hold me and we cried together as I have never seen 2 men cry.
Seven years of normality were a facade for our soul-crushing sorrow.
When my tears dried up, I felt a terrible headache. I wanted to speak to Jack, from the heart, but I couldn’t think clearly or find honest words. I was mumbling incoherent nonsense in front of Jack’s grave, feeling like crying again at any second.
“Write him a letter” his dad said. “I will take you home. Have dinner with your family and before going to bed, go somewhere private and write my son a letter”.
So here it is Jack. I can’t bring myself to say these words in front of your grave, so I will write them for you. You know where I keep my journals, so I trust you will find it.
Hello J,
Sorry for that scene today at the cemetery - not very cool of me.
I have been thinking long and hard about what happened the other night, why your eyes looked so sad.
Like your dad, I am deeply sorry, but for different reasons. Damn, where do I start?
I blamed you for dying and quitting our friendship. For years, I resented you for leaving me alone in a world that had forgotten you. What were you thinking, eh? I thought we were gonna be inseparable!
You looked so tall and grown-up that I thought you had it all figured out. I thought you were in control. Now, I realise you were just a kid like me and you bore none of the blame for your death. It was not your fault.
I am sorry you died the way you did. You know, I met the woman that killed you. She got her hands on me a few times, but every time I got spared. I wish you had some of my luck.
More importantly, I am sorry for pretending that you were not around all these years. Your departure made me feel empty and alone. Without realising it, I have made you feel the same way for the last 7 years.
You had enough on your plate dealing with your own death and I have only made it worse. I stopped being a good friend when you needed it the most.
I don’t deserve you following me around anymore, but if you are not entering the afterlife (or whatever), maybe you can stick around a bit longer.
That would be cool, wouldn’t it? You will be Bruce Willis and I will be the kid.
Please come along as often as you want. There are so many things we haven’t seen or done yet!
Geez, when was the last time we played baseball? We should try that soon. Good luck trying to hit a home run with your ectoplasmic bat though!
I am sure you have other people to haunt and places to be so I will stop here. I hope to see you around, Jack.
Love,
Ed.
And that’s it, chaps.
I hope you enjoy this month’s story. Honestly, I am already dreading writing the next one!
According to my publishing schedule (which I shared here), next Wednesday I will present an educational piece on a topic that I am yet to decide on. If you got any suggestions, feel free to let me know.
Before that, this Sunday you will get another issue of Stuff Around the Internet so you won’t have to wait long to read my silly ramblings! Last Sunday, I spoke about dating “Short Kings” and the broken elitist educational system in England.
Go check it out if you haven’t yet :)
In the meantime, remember to:
Drink water and reduce the sodium intake in your diet.
Call and message your loved ones.
Mind the gap between the train and the platform.
Peace out, kiddo.
Cesar.