I can hear them talking about him and her and all I can think about is how much he is like me. Not in every way of course, but when he was dumped he was upset and angry. He still loved her, just as I love my ex. They're talking about him as if he is something of the distant past; as if he doesn't exist anymore, as if he was a part of her life way back when nothing was important, and that is all he is. He's some sort of ghost, and she says she is so happy now - and I wonder, what about him? Is he still upset? They were "most likely to get married" in their Grade 12 yearbook. So were we. It's the London curse.I hate listening to this conversation, about how happy she is, as if getting rid of him was the best thing that happened to her. Is that how he feels too? Is he happier without me? Am I ghost of his past, like he has become to her?
It's funny because I do feel like a ghost; one of those ghosts that resides on this earth because they've died with unfulfilled dreams and unresolved issues. I died before my conflicts had agreed. The inside of me - my soul - has been dead for months now. I died in the fall, one night while I layed in my cold bed with scratched and burning arms and crying hysterically into my wet pillow, praying to God to please kill me right then. I died on one of those lonely nights on that cursed hill.
That hill has a lot of ghosts, I could feel them then, and I still can - whenever I go up that hill, whenever I drive under the school and up to the residences I can feel the ghosts beckoning me, calling my name -
Krista, this is where you belong
The stairs to his front door - I died there once. I died in his room in the corner of the closet with a pair of scissors, and I died in my own room with a duller pair. I died in my living room, and I died by the gymnasium on the North side overlooking the mountains on a drizzly gray day in November. I died in the West Mall Complex, I died on the lawn between Kitimat and Chilcotin house, sitting on the soaking wet grass by the picnic table, and I died in the AQ on the second pay phone to the right by room B-something, I forget the entire number. I died on the stairs of his house at 12:30am on September 17, 2000.
Whenever I go back I can hear the dead souls of so many others calling me, coaxing me to come home, to live in constant misery with them, to roam the campus through freezing cold rains after midnight, to prick my fingers on more thorns, and to heave bottles of pills across my room once again so that they spill on to my carpet. Red coated Advils, chalky round white Asprins, elliptical Midols and 75 mg orange and white capsules of Effexor. Keep them spewed on that puke-orange carpet for a couple more days, just to remind yourself how much they control you.
Simon Fraser University has the highest suicide rate of all universities in Canada
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