I Dream of Yellow Kites: What if it was all just a nightmare?

by Unknown

  Benji blamed himself, because there was no one else to blame. The rest of them- Isabella, Katy, Ted, and Morgan- they went into a deep shock. But nothing like Benji. He awoke every night from his nightmares. Still does. And he's afraid of me, afraid I'm going to kill him because he killed me.

  A few years ago, they found an unidentifiable object at the bottom of the lake, under a boulder. A fisherman had dragged his hook under the rock, and found it. Burnt to a char, yet stone cold. He turned it over to the authorities, guessing that it might have a story behind it.

  They found my DNA on it.

  Maybe it was my body. Maybe it wasn't. The thought would make me sick if I was alive.

  It made Benji sick. He couldn't eat for weeks, and he began to hallucinate. That's when they brought him to get help.

  Benji's killing himself. Tearing his mind and soul apart until he will never be able to find peace. He's paranoid with fear and sadness and guilt, imagining things that never happened.

  Accidents happen, but when you're the cause, indirect or not, you'll always feel at fault."

  {Six}

  Emma Blackwell's story was over, in more ways than one.

  She stopped talking as abruptly as she had started, and simply stood there, staring at something far off in the distance.

  "I'm so sorry," I whispered.

  She shook her head at me, the moonlight reflecting in her copper hair.

  "Don't be. It would be ridiculous for you, a dead girl, to feel sorry for me, also a dead girl."

  I sat on the rocky ground for some time, watching the trees shake softly in the wind. There was silence between us, but it was not awkward. The dead are as one, an unspoken understanding between us all. What's the point of talking when you already know everything you need to know? Useless chatter only becomes the living.

  We, the dead, are completely serious. Maybe to make up for the way we went out.

  Facing in the same direction as her, I asked,

  "Do you ever wish that you didn't know who killed you?"

  "If that meant I didn't have to see the pain Benji is in, then yes," she answered without hesitation.

  "Well, I wish I knew who killed me. I don't think I'll ever have peace until I do."

  Emma looked at me long and hard.

  "If you don't have peace, that means you have unfinished business."

  "What do you mean?" I asked slowly.

  "If you were murdered, maybe you need to find your killer. Like you said, you won't be at peace unless you do.

  When we're stuck in the middle, dead in the living world like this, it means that either we haven't forgiven someone, or they haven't forgiven themselves. Those people that tell you forgiveness is so important are right. More than they know," she frowned.

  "So you're saying I need to find my killer, and forgive them?"

  "Exactly. That's the only way to truly die. To leave this awful place you're stuck in."

  The way Emma talked, and the way I felt, you would think I wanted to be done with this life and go to the afterlife. That I was trying to find the best way to do that.

  Not whatever limbo I was stuck in now, but real life. One that was full of ordinary, wonderful things, such as breathing, drinking cool water on a hot day, and laughing so hard that you can't breathe and choke on your drink of water.

  So many people kill themselves because life is too much for them. They want to escape the pain.

  But how you can you escape pain, when you only wish you were able to feel it at all? And how can you kill yourself when you're already dead?

  ***

  Emma had gone, and after spending some time calling her name and looking for her, I realized my efforts were useless. Emma did what she wanted, and went where she wanted. The dead have no use for pleasantries.

  I was back to wandering down the city streets, down Penn road. But I didn't go to the place that was my home, or should I say, was once my home.

  I walked further and further down the dark, quiet streets of Portland until I reached a house almost familiar as my own. Liz's lights were on, and I could see her busily working on something. I attempted to climb the willow tree adjacent to her window, and failed miserably. If I was alive, half my bones would be broken right now, I thought.

  I finally managed to grasp a branch a little ways from her roof and swing onto it.

  Liz sat at her desk, fiddling with a pencil. Her hair was in its usual messy braid, and her nails were coated in the dark orange nail polish she always wore, but her face was different. It was still Liz's familiar friendly face, don't get me wrong- but it was tired, and a little thin. Almost haggard. I hadn't seen Liz since school on that day three months ago. Exactly three months now.

  "Bye darling! Call me when you get home, okay?" She had shouted to me as I stepped off the bus.

  "I'll call you after dinner, yeah?"

  I had never called.

  Liz got up suddenly from her desk and left the room. Her mother must have called for her or something.

  I should have been knocking on the door like a respectable human being, greeting Liz with a "Hey, weirdo," not watching through her window like an outsider, and knowing deep down that I would never hang out with her again. Never talk to her, or make fun of her horrible singing voice. No more anything that was good in life.

  Suddenly, I didn't want to be here anymore. I half jumped, half fell from the tree, ran down the lawn, and headed back down the sidewalk under the light of the street lamps.

  Morning was coming, and their yellow light began to fade as I reached home.

  I crawled through the living room window, taking everything in longingly, and ended up as usual in my room, lying on my bed. Not asleep, but not awake. Dazed and zoned out. As close to really, peacefully dead as I might ever get. That is, until I heard screams from the next room.

  Daisy's nightmares had started.

  Ever since the day of the tragedy, Daisy had been somewhat normal. She looked more scared than sad. Other than the occasional tear, she had been quiet, skittish, and absent. Always absent. Scared of what? I don't know what happened after I blacked out into death, but it didn't have to be much to mess with a twelve year old girl's head.

  Maybe Daisy was starting to deal with problems like I had dealt with them. Hiding away, ignoring the truth, pretending it was all good when I came back from my quiet place. The fact that she was having nightmares was proof that stress, grief and trauma always come out somewhere, someway. You can smile and pull a poker face, but you'll have nightmares. You can live the same way as usual, pushing down the problem, but it will become a stomach ulcer.

  Either you survive with defects, or you don't survive at all.

  {Seven}

  It's been two years since the day I was murdered, and I still have no idea who my killer is.

  "If no one had a motive for killing you, then maybe you were just mugged and robbed, you know?" Emma had argued.

  "Em, how come you remember how you died, but I don't?"

  "I don't know. It takes time, I suppose. It took time for me to remember, and when I did, it hurt too much. That was probably why it took so long. Subconsciously, I didn't want to remember."

  "So, I know exactly what happened, I just have to pull it from my mind?"

  "Yes. You've already pulled a lot, actually. You know you were murdered, and your body was left at the bottom of that cliff. What you don't know is who killed you, why they did so, or what they did to you before you ended up where the police found you. Were you dead when you were put there? Or killed after? Did they throw you off the cliff, or carry you through the woods? What happened to Daisy?

  Don’t worry. You'll remember."

  She had peered down at me, and then smiled suddenly. One of her rare, beautiful smiles.

  The first time Emma had smiled, really smiled, I wondered who this person was in front of me.

  The Emma I knew was so serious, so melancholic. Had she been like that when she was alive? Or had she lit up the sky w
ith her smiles? Probably the latter. After all, wasn't I much more serious now than I had been during my life? No wonder her friends missed her so much.

  "You know exactly what happened Dahlia. It's right in there," she had tapped her head with her forefinger.

  "I don't know. The more I think about it, the cloudier my memory becomes."

  I had gotten up and left. This conversation always made me tired.

  ***

  What do people look like after they've murdered someone? Do they look cold and empty, like ice? Or gleeful and wicked? Do they look tired and haggard from the guilt they hold inside, or do they feel guilt at all?

  Maybe they look exactly like everyone else.

  Like Chris. When Emma first introduced me to him, I had assumed he was a victim of murder, like me. Not a perpetrator as well.

  Emma had appeared out of nowhere as I was sitting on the playground swings one night.

  "Dahlia, I have someone that would like to meet you. Chris, meet Dahlia Adler. Victim of an unknown murderer."

  "Nice to meet you," he said, shaking my hand, but not making eye contact. He was tall, with a buzz cut and alert brown eyes that seemed to be searching for something, or waiting for someone. He smiled at me, but then immediately resumed the air of a scared animal.

  "You too."

  "Em says you two are trying to find your killer."

  I looked at Emma questioningly.

  "Chris said he'll try to help us," Emma explained.

  "Exactly. I try to help anyone who needs to move forward. It makes up for what I did to get here in the first place," Chris said hesitantly. He was definitely on edge about something.

  What did he mean? Had he gotten himself killed out of stupidity or recklessness? I decided to ask Emma more about him later on."

  ***

  It turns out that I had been partly right.

  "Em, who is this Chris guy? Why did he want to meet me?"

  "He already told you, Dahlia. Because he wants to help find your killer."

  "Yes, but, why does he want to help find my killer? How'd he end up here, like us?"

  "Dahlia... maybe you'd better ask him yourself before your curiosity kills you. Oh wait. That was bad. Sorry."

  "Em?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Where can I find him?"

  "Down by the bridge. You know the one."

  Did I? It was too late to ask Emma now, as she was already gone, so I headed for the little bridge by the nearest road.

  It was surrounded by trees, with faded graffiti on either side of its guard rails. The road curved sharply as it met the bridge.

  Something had happened here. This must have been where Chris died.

  As I got closer, I could see Chris, his shaved head in his hands as he sat by the side of the road. He looked up as I came near him.

  "Hello, Dahlia."

  "Hey."

  "What are you doing here?" He asked, his eyes looked feverish.

  "I want to know why you wanted to help me. How you died."

  "I know."

  So, just as Emma had done, Chris told me his story.

  ~August 12th, 1998~

  "Life hadn't been going too well for me lately. I wasn't living up to anyone's expectations, especially my own.

  My parents hadn't raised me to be a drunken, reckless failure, but I was one. The more I hated myself, the more I would drink, and the more I would drink, the more I would hate myself. It was a vicious cycle.

  At least the only person I was hurting was myself. I don't think anyone knew that I would drink myself to sleep every night, and wake up raging and sick. I worked from home, and I was making just enough to survive. But as my drinking got worse, I wasn't sober enough to work at all, day or night.

  I couldn't move forward with my life and use what I had. Instead, I kept backtracking. Maybe that's why I want to help you find your killer.

  My girlfriend Valerie knew I was having issues, but she didn't know bad I had become, since she was gone most of the summer with her friends in Texas.

  One day in August, she called me on the phone for the first time in two months. Or maybe it was just the first time in two months that I actually checked my phone.

  "Hey Chris!"

  I almost smiled at hearing her voice. Val was like a ray of sunshine in my cloudy life.

  "I just got back. My trip was amazing! I'll be over tonight to tell you all about it."

  I stopped smiling when I heard that.

  I didn't want her seeing me drunk. I didn't want her to see me at all. The sun can't shine through concrete walls.

  My depression had become unfixable, my heart impenetrable.

  Around 8:00, the doorbell rang. I was definitely not sober, and I knew it. But I answered anyway. The smile immediately disappeared from her face as she took in the sight in front of her. She began yelling, I began yelling, and then the monster within me took over.

  I looked down to see my hands around her neck, as she choked and struggled for breath.

  The neighbors found her, and they must have called an ambulance, because she survived. Just barely, but she did.

  Her beautiful singing voice is ruined forever, and many of her rays of sunshine had been stolen from her.

  When I realized what I had done, I went even more insane. I ran out into the street blindly, headed for the hospital I suppose. I had no shoes on, and it was raining. I couldn't see straight, if at all.

  You see how the road curves so sharply before it comes to the bridge? A car could fly right around that corner, and wipe out anyone in its way with no going back.

  A car came around that corner.

  I was in its way.

  They found my body right over there, in the weeds. The perfect place for a person who had become a weed himself.

  I had loved her. I was going to ask her to marry me. I still love her.

  But maybe it was good that I died that night. She was a beautiful sunflower, and I was a weed who would have soon choked her out indefinitely if I had survived.

  Everything happens for a reason, right?"

  Chris's head dropped back into his hands.

  He had gotten himself killed out of recklessness, after all. But not before he had almost killed someone else. Someone he loved.

  Chris couldn't move on until he had forgiven himself. But how can you forgive yourself when you don't even know who you are? Or what could've happened if you had been let to your own devices?

  What if. Possibly the scariest question there is. The options are endless.

  {Eight}

  As I crawled through the living room window that night, the feeling of impending doom was bearing down on me again. How many other people would I meet like Emma and Chris in the years to come? How many years were to come?

  "Do you ever get afraid of the future?" I had asked Emma during an especially awful spell.

  "No. What's the point of being afraid of something you can't do anything about?"

  Typical Emma. Always mind over matter with her. With me, it wasn't so easy. I wanted to get somewhere finally, do something. Was I dead or alive? I didn't want to be both, or neither, at the same time.

  I crept up the stairs, shaking my head in an effort to shake pointless thoughts from my mind. It was nice to never be sick, or tired. To never need sleep. I could go anywhere, and do anything with no consequences. Instead, I chose to go to the same place I went every day while I was alive.

  When Jack went away to college, he had given me his raggedy, but very comfortable old armchair. It still sat in the corner of my room, untouched like the rest of my things. I curled up in its familiar cushions, breathing in its scent, and gazed at the pictures on my wall.

  There were pictures of Liz and I just being our usual dumb selves. Every time we had a laugh attack, the rule was that a picture must be taken. As a result, my wall was covered in pictures of us, mouths agape, hysterical smiles on our faces.

  Did Liz have anyone to have laugh attacks with now? I hoped so. L
iz and laughter were synonymous with one another.

  There were several photos of Marina, posing as the model she was always meant to be.

  "Snap snap! Take a shot!" Marina would call out in a sing-song voice whenever she found a place where she thought a picture should be taken.

  There was a black and white photo of Tina and her boyfriend Alec, in front of an old lighthouse. That picture was a pretty big deal, because it was the only time Tina let me take a picture of her. She couldn't stand cameras, but she had been so happy that day because of Alec. I wondered if they were still together.