The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts.

- Italo Calvino


We've all got our ghosts.

Mine stand behind me every time I face off with another murderer wielding a gun, knife, bomb or sharp object. They don't have a particular order; it all depends on who it is wielding that weapon.

If it's a schizophrenic, then it's my mom who's up first.

Ghosts don't have to be dead. They don't have to be people either. Just memories. Memories you wish would stay dead.

My mom will sink her fingers into my head, standing right there behind me. And in a flash I remember every word she's ever spoken to me—every book, every failed promise, every plea.

I remember the Fischer King. I remember how she didn't even know she was both the beginning of a killer, and his end.

So I remember to use a soft voice with the schizophrenic holding a gun to his own mouth.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

If it's a person with a dissociative identity disorder, then Tobias' ghost puts his hand on my arm.

His nails are like needles and he's injecting me all over again, trying to save me. Just like I tried to save Adam. He whispers comforts, while his other faces—Rafael and his father, sneer at me and twist the needles while they're still in my veins.

So I remember to ask to whom I'm speaking to when the man with a woman inside him is holding a baby hostage. And remember to respect all the people I'm addressing.

If it's a kid who hates the world… the ghosts are everywhere. The black and white memory of a football field and an infamous goal post stand out among them. Beside it are a quarterback and a cheerleader, holding rope and laughing.

Someone's always laughing.

These ghosts are possibly the worse—worse than addiction, worse than betrayal.

Because I can face off the addiction of a drug. I can face off the pain. I can face off my betrayals and ask for forgiveness.

But I can't make these other ghosts go away… because every one of them embodies me. No one else. Just me.

So I can't remember how to handle the situation. I can't remember what to say or what to do.

I'm a blank page, a mute voice—a ghost myself.