You must understand, my friends, I followed every rule given, I did not look her in the eyes, I did not speak to her. I offered no ride nor asked what was wrong. I continued home, and, by the next week, I had forget about her. So why is she here? Why is she with me?
You see, she would have been a beauty, had her stockings not been torn. A beauty, had her face not been crumpled in desperation, cheeks not black with mascara. Her lips were painted red, legs long and pale, her hair blonde and free, a mess in the wind. Mother told me she was glad the windows weren’t down as I passed her. Her hand was waving, thumb up, mouth moving rapidly. No words could I hear from within the car. As I said before, my friends, I followed every rule, even as my heart welled and my throat clogged and my own tears fell.
I told my friends about her, of course. They were concerned but consoled me, told me the rules were not worth breaking for one poor soul, not unlike the millions of others. They were logical. I agreed.
I dreamed her a safe place. I forgot about about her for a few months. But recently, she has been around. I’ve seen flashes of her fishnet stockings in the corner of my eyes. Her hand, raised high to hitchhike, seen in the middle of crowds. Her hair. Her lips.
It’s been more and more frequent, you understand. She has sat beside me as I ate. She has laughed as I joked with my friends. Her mouth moves often, and I feel she has been talking, and still, I have not heard a word nor a sound. My friends, I need you to know, I didn’t know how much longer I could take her presence. She has slept by my bed, sat on my counters. She has been everywhere, and yet, somehow, nowhere. Her footsteps make no noise. She leaves no trace of herself for others to find. Her stockings are still ripped, however no more or no less than they were that day. Her lips, still red, her cheeks still black. I tell you, she is no ghost. No hallucination: I can touch her, I have touched her. My friends, I do not know what I could do. Do not misunderstand me, do not blame me, please, I beg of you, do not guilt me. You could not understand, I do not understand. She caused me no harm, and yet I feared her. She caused me no harm, and yet I shook while near her. I swear, I have never heard a sound from her mouth, but I have imagined her desperate yells from that day far too many times. I have imagined her voice, maybe gentle and kind, maybe low, maybe calm. Her laugh, from the heart, joy across her face. I have seen her just once, but I have seen her a billion times more.
Even now, as I tell you about her, my friends, she sits here beside me. Her skin is greyer than ever. Her eyes more bloodshot. My friends, I swear to you, I did nothing wrong. I promise you, I followed all the rules. I fear to tell you that, now, there is blood on her. Splattered across her face, dried upon her legs, dripping down her legs. Nearly every part of her covered, I say! But yet, not a crimson drop stains her hands. No, no. Not a drop. That blood is only upon my own.