You know that feeling you get when you find out that you're dead? Of course not.

But let me tell you – it sucks. It sucks a lot.

I mean, it's not like it's something a kid thinks about all the time. It'd passed through my mind once or twice. Mostly I had just figured that I'd be in chilling in heaven, because, you know, I wasn't a serial killer or anything. I figured that was enough. At least, I sort of hoped it was. But that wasn't enough, either. It was the kind of hope you had when you finished an exam you didn't study for, but cross your fingers for a good grade.

I didn't like the idea of being reincarnated, either. Being someone or something else? What if I was Hitler or some other creepy genocide-ical maniac in one of my past lives and karma decided to turn me into a fire hydrant that dogs piss on? Even worse, though, is not remembering anything. It would be like having your past erased without a second thought, like it doesn't matter.

But the thought I hated the most was the theory of nothingness when you died. That living was over once your heart stops beating, once the electric currents in your brain cells stopped flowing. Because then the nerve cells in your body stop detecting things, you stop existing because your body functioning is the only thing that's proof that you existed. Then people don't remember you. At that point you don't matter, because you can't exist if no one knows you do. You're forgotten.

And that's exactly what I was.

Forgotten.

I was the Spirit of Forgotteness.

I was the spark of wonder that faded from children's eyes when the world told them they were too old to believe.

I was the curtain of reality that was pulled over wide eyes and wild dreams.

I was the heavy doubt that hunched shoulders and crippled imagination.

Charming, isn't it?

I used to think that I would never get rid of the sting I felt when I caused a smile to disappear. But after a while, I got used to it. I think the trick is repetition. Once you get into the pattern of it, it starts to become a schedule – something normal, like catching the bus for school. By the time I realized that I stopped caring, I was too tired to care about not caring. And then, before I knew it, remorse turned into apathy, and apathy turned into… satisfaction.

Anyways, I guess I'm rambling. Sorry.

It's just been a really frustrating day.

I know it's wrong, I know it's not fair, but I take my frustration out on the crouched figure of the teen sitting in front of me. His pupils dilate errartically, hands clutching his head, mousy brown hair poking out in uneven tufts. For a split second I remember that this was the part where I was supposed to apologize to deaf ears, blink back tears of self-disgust.

That was… weird. I hadn't thought about that in a long, long time.

I've been haunting this kid for a while – Ever since I first laid my eyes on him. The restrained laughter in his voice and the pure innocence in his gaze was something rarely found in kids his age, and it was something I just could not leave alone. I knew he would definitely be a challenge.

But I really didn't expect him to be such a hard nut to crack.

I lost track of the time I spent trying to dig my nails into where it hurts the most, repeated his deepest fears, clawed at his weaknesses. I used the voices of those he held closest to scathe him to the point where the pain would be unimaginable. I used his own mind against him. I did everything.

And little by little, the shine in his eyes would get dimmer. His smiles would get smaller. Thoughts darker.

I was so close. He was dangling at the knife's edge…

Just one more push…

"You know they're all just a lie. Why don't you just grow up?"

His eyes glaze over in defeat.

I laugh.

I have broken the Boy Who Believed.