IRC-Galleria

There was this guy, Alan, in my high school, kinda weird, didn't really have any friends, was kinda rude to everyone. Well, he committed suicide the other day. Or that's what we tell everyone, that he ran in front of our car. Truth is, I was shit-faced and wisely refused to drive, so I gave the keys to my friend Joseph, who was hopped up on shrooms. And to be frank, I didn't see if he was in the middle of the road or where, but we hit him and he died.

Since then, I've been having trouble trying to sleep. I'm convinced Alan is somewhere near me, pointing a blaming finger at me. Joseph's in a coma, dunno about him. But I can feel Alan's presence. Especially when it's dark. In every reflection in the windows, the tv screen, car windshields, I can see, very vaguely, his shape standing in the corner of the room, on the curb, over my shoulder. If I have a light on and open the shades, I can swear behind the reflection of the room, he's looking in the window, glaring at me. When it's really quiet, I'm sure I can hear his voice, ever so vaguely, at the edge of my hearing.

Alan's goddamn fucking pissed off at me, I can feel it in every crack from the house settling and every bump in the night. And I'm afraid to close my eyes, because I fear that when I open them anew, he'll be there, staring me straight in the eye, ready to reach out for my throat with his dead hands. I haven't slept in... days, really. Except for some 15 minutes at a time, after which I wake up screaming, flailing my arms and legs to fight him off, but he's not there. Not yet, at least, but I'm sure he will, maybe not the next time or the one after that, but it's not like he's in a hurry. Oh no, he will be there.