The silence after death was oppressive—deafening. It was suffocating, as if his pain was the only pain left in this world. But that wasn't the end. The end had yet to come.
(Alderam's Perspective)
I had thought I had died, but something kept me here. A pull, a nudge, a tug toward this wretched world, and I followed it.
I looked at my spectral figure and noticed its ethereal glint and shine. It looked like me, but less sad—a version of myself I could have become.
Then I saw them running through the grass playground, coming from Kymie's last class. Tyler, with her long curly hair messy as usual, ran with undeniable drive. Even Kymie, the most averse to running, made the distance between us negligible in a matter of seconds.
As soon as they saw me, tears began to flow—not only from my death but from what they felt as an incapability to protect.
I wanted to hold them and say, It's not your fault, don't beat yourself up about it, but I wasn't able to converse with them.
"I'm so, so sorry… it's not your fault," I said, realizing I was talking to the air. They couldn't hear me, neither could they see me.
What have I done? I mused to myself. I have caused them so much pain and harm. If only I wasn't such a fool, maybe this wouldn't have happened. If I had not made that stupid, foolish, selfish decision… maybe we could have been happy.
I had put upon someone something I wouldn't want to be put upon myself.
In a mix of all these emotions, hot tears formed in my eyes—the only outlet of my emotions in that spectral form, where only my sight and hearing were available. Tears dropped to the ground. I had always cried a lot, but this time my tears were an ocean, unleashed in a torrent of rain.
As my tears, slight in nature, grew unbearable, I wondered how much trauma and pain I had caused them. The empty promises I had made—of us going to school together, of living with each other. Our plans to run away from home together. Everything was gone, all because of me.
Why didn't I speak to them? They would have talked me out of it. It was all my fault, I thought.
But as I was about to stop, I heard a voice say resolutely:
"You are of the opinion that even if you didn't commit suicide, life would be better."
Its voice commanded, alluring and enthralling at the same time, as it continued:
"Happy endings don't always exist, and I'll show it to you."
And I was sucked into something I had never accounted for.
He was back to that moment where she handed him the book, her cold gaze piercing through him. He had always hated her, but a primal rage pulsed like electricity through his veins as he snatched the book from her.
"May I drink water?" he said to the teacher. She brushed him off, saying yes.
He pondered what he would do, as countless possibilities flew through his mind. He couldn't let her get the satisfaction of ruining his life while he figured out how to return the situation in his favor.
He looked around the classroom for people whom he could use—definitely not the right word, he mused—people he could utilize. And he saw her, just right beside him: the class diva, Lorrie.
Someone who didn't appreciate her worth, in his honest opinion, and now he would use that to his advantage. He turned to her, staring at her luscious blond hair and deep blue eyes. No wonder all the boys are over her, he thought.
"Why are you staring at me?" she said, half annoyed, half aloof.
"It's because I have something to tell you, related to Charlie."
As she heard the name of her boyfriend, a vibrant light spread through her eyes. If only she knew what he was going to tell her.
"I'll tell you, but I need you to do something for me," he said.
"It depends on what you want," she replied.
"I want you to get the teacher out of the class, any means possible," I said, grinning slyly in my head.
She said, "Okay."
As I whispered into her ear: "Charlie is cheating on you with Tracy."
"That's bullshit," she said, as her face turned sour with despair.
"No, it's not," I said, carefully extracting my phone from my bag, as if taking out my water bottle. I love my genius sometimes, I cogitated.
I brought out my phone and showed her the messages I had screenshotted once when one of Tracy's friends called me having a mental breakdown.
Screenshotting culture saves lives, she thought internally, as she just walked out of the classroom—not without going up to Tracy and giving her a resounding slap. The slap separated gazes with its sheer force, as the room whispered with murmurs. Only to follow it up by giving Charlie a more resounding slap as she walked slowly to her destination.
She finally said at the door:
"The two people I have slapped are in a promiscuous relationship. Both of them are sluts. Especially Tracy, who, while she has a boyfriend, was kissing and texting Charlie, calling him babe. And Charlie himself, texting her and slandering me. Both of them are evil, two-faced, lying, backstabbing, smelly-ass rude idiots who should spend the rest of their lives in hell."
She left the room.
I was smiling in excitement, my mouth twisted at a weird angle, as I stood up and said snarkily:
"To add insult to injury—" I projected my voice to a point that rattled even myself—"Charlie also watches porn on Reddit, and Tracy sells pictures of herself online. And last and most importantly, Tracy stole my diary because she's a brat looking for attention her parents don't give her. She's probably already told her co-bullies I like Sebastian."
I managed to say before I rushed after Lorrie. I knew where she would be: the library, crying to herself. She had a complex relationship with the librarian, both mutually understanding she sometimes needed time to herself.
As I rushed after her, I noticed my breath shaking. Oh my God, I'm so unathletic, I thought to myself.
As I reached the door of the library, half-bending, hands on my knees, panting, I opened the door with unexpected force. I saw her crying to herself as I consoled her.
Then again the pulling began, as I saw myself dead.
"Now both of you, come out," I said, as I saw a familiar spectral being.
Had somebody else died nearby? I thought. But he was dressed very differently from me, almost medievally, in robes and whatnot, like a kid from Harry Potter.
The voice said:
"You are you, both of you are the same, and you will help your world."
"But I'm dead already," I said.
"Yes, you are, and you are him. You will merge souls and remember."
She looked at the soul. His—this is your past life.
As the soul disappeared into nothingness, she looked tame and said:
"Repeat after me: Memento doloris mei, verum et libera vitam meam, tolerabilem viribus invisibilibus, mortem meam, innegabilem, inevitabilem et crudam, donec dolor animorum meorum surgat. Realitas ad aliorum auxilium flectit, et fatum mortem meam confirmat. Ostende mihi veram historiam meam, et fac ut stulti suas historias paeniteant."
As I repeated in English:
"Remember my woe, true and free my life controlled by forces unseen. My death undeniable, inevitable and raw, till the pain of my best friends soars. Reality bends to others' help, and fate seals my own demise. Show myself my true story and make those fools rue their stories."
As it all faded into black.
I awoke almost instantaneously, but my spirit felt weak. I was as pale as a ghost—which I assumed I had turned into—as I suffered the most horrendous migraine known to both man and wizard-kind.
As I received the memories of my so-called past life, I thought to myself:
Shit.
And then I passed out.