“Day twenty-six!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I glance down and mumble to myself, “Twenty-six.” I take a sip of my vodka and relax in the raggedy armchair near the window; I look out, but all I see is blackness. The same blackness that is behind all the exits. I am stuck in this old room. At least there is booze, I tell myself.
A ghostly figure appears in front of me with a disapproving expression. Its silvery transparent body hovering above the floor. “You again.” I roll my eyes. I can feel the disdain rise in my soul.
“Getting trashed because you can’t leave?” The figure fusses in a ghastly tone.
I look at the figure and shrug. “What else am I going to do?” I down my liquor, the alcohol burns my throat on the way down. I make a face.
“Don’t you think you could think of what you’ve done?” Instantaneously becoming enraged; I violently squeeze my hands into fists, crushing my glass.
“You broke another glass. Could you stop doing that?” the figure says.
“I’d kill you if you weren’t already dead. You know that, don’t you?”
“You’re bleeding on the carpet.” I look at the figure for a second and then down at the carpet. The carpet is old with holes in it.
“I think it will be ok. It’s due for a cleaning, anyway.” I open my hand to see glass pieces fall to the floor. The bleeding has ceased and my hand looks good as new.
“You can’t leave until you learn your lesson,” another voice says. I look over and see a black cat licking its paws.
“Thanks, Mr. Whiskers, but I already know the true meaning of Christmas,” I say sarcastically.
The cat hisses at me and says, “That attitude is the reason you’re here, you know?”
I laugh, “I get it. She’s angry.”
“Angry? I’d say pissed,” a female’s voice says. My eyes widen.
“Abigail,” I say, standing up. She’s beautiful. Her long blonde curls wrap around her round face. Her pouty lips are now thin with hatred.
“I’ve come to see how progress is coming. Have you repented for your sins?” she asks, crossing her arms.
“If that’s what it would take to get out of here, then sure,” I say with a smirk on my face.
She gives me a death glare and says, “I felt pity for you, but that was short-lived.”
“Awe, come on, babe! You can’t stay mad at me.”
“You obviously have learned nothing and never will.”
“I’m glad you realized. Can I leave now?” I ask.
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I want you to suffer as I did. Because you refuse to learn from your actions, you will stay here for eternity.” She looks deep into my eyes with anger, but I can still see the hurt underneath. Then she leaves as fast as she came, vanishing.
“You can’t leave me in here!” I scream. I angrily throw my chair across the room.
“Please don’t do that. You’re making a mess,” the figure wails. The realization that there is nothing I can do starts creeping into my brain. I fall to the ground. Tears cascade down my face.
“Please don’t leave me here. Abigail, please! I’m sorry.”
“It’s no use to plead. You’re stuck here. Forever,” Mr. Whiskers says snidely.
“Forever,” I repeat, lying down on the dirty floor. The lump in my throat dissolves. “Forever in this room. Forever with a ghost with anxiety and a damn cat.” I close my eyes and sigh. “I don’t think the booze is going to last that long.”