Existence, chapter 3

Carolyn984@aol.com

"So take a look at me now, there's just an empty space

And there's nothing left here to remind me, just the memory of your face

Take a look at me now, there's just an empty space

And you coming back to me is against all odds

And that's what I've got to face. . ." –Phil Collins

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You would think that "passing on" requires an actual departure from this living world, but apparently not. I would know.

Because that is what I have done. I have moved on, in a way, albeit against my own wishes. I would never leave her if I did not have to. Not having known she returned my affections. I would never desert her, leave her alone and unprotected. I would not even think of it.

I cannot even understand what happened. One moment, Susannah and I are talking in her room, and seconds later, I am feeling this pulling sensation. I immediately know that something is wrong, and begin to tell her so.

"Querida, something is happening. I don't know—"

"Jesse?" she looks over to where I am, but instead of focusing on my face as she normally does when talking to me—as any person would do when talking to someone else—she starts frantically searching around the area where I am standing, just feet away from her. "Jesse? Where. . . well, that was rude."

She turns, with a hurt and aggravated look on her expressive face, and flops over on her back on her mattress. I do not understand what is happening. Did she not hear me? Why did she stop talking? What was so rude?

Can't she see that I'm still right here?

And then it hits me—she can't. She doesn't see me.

How did this happen?

I walk over to her, but she does not stir. She remains laying there, staring up at the ceiling impatiently. In my mind, I hear her calling me. "You know, Jesse, I *was* saying something, but I guess I'll just have to wait until you come back from where ever you took off to. But hey, you know, no rush."

What is she talking about? I am right here!

"Susannah, what do you mean? I have not gone anywhere."

She just sighs, glancing around the room once more. I begin to grow nervous. What just happened?

I reach out to take her hand, to show her that I am still here. But I cannot.

To my horror, my hand passes right through hers. I cannot touch her. She cannot see me.

And I don't know why.

I try other things—I try lifting the book that I left on the window seat. Nothing. I try using my kinetic abilities to withdraw the pen that Susannah had picked up and begun tapping in aggravation from her hand. Nothing.

And then I hear a voice in my mind. It is not Susannah's, but familiar all the same.

"Hey, I hope you didn't leave anything unsaid, cowboy, because you won't be able to talk to anyone—not even Suze—anymore. It's time for you to go," the man's voice taunts. It is that despicable man—el Diablo si mismo—Paul Slater.

He did this. He did something to me. Something that is forcing me to move on. Not an exorcism, but something equally destructive. And suddenly I know. I will be gone soon. I will leave Susannah.

And the thought scares me more than anything else. I do not know what to do. I cannot leave, not yet.

I love her.

She knows that, right? Please tell me she knows that. She must.

And she shouldn't. I wish she did not. No—I am more thankful for her love than for life itself, this half-life that I live, but I only wish she did not have to be hurt like this. Because that is what I feared most from our relationship—that someday she would be hurt by it.

I just never thought it would be so soon.

The telephone rings. Susannah gets off of her bed and answers it, her voice still tinged with frustration. Seconds into the conversation, all color drains from her face.

It is Slater. He is telling her what has happened, what he—for I am sure it was he—has done.

The phone drops from her hands. "No. . ."

I rush over to where she is standing, but although I cannot touch her, I stand beside her. I listen to the voice coming from the telephone, which is lying idle on the floor.

". . .I told you it would happen sooner or later, Suze. I was just helping the inevitable. You're better off. . ."

And I cannot listen any more. I turn to look at her, her emerald green eyes shimmering with tears. "No. . ." she says again. In a haste, she picks the phone off of the floor and pulls it back to her ear. "What are you talking about? *What did you do??!*"

I listen again. "Just helped your cowboy get to the other side. You should be thrilled. I took on a charity case, just like you."

"Paul," she says, her voice brimming with rage. Susannah, I want to yell, I am right here! "Tell me you didn't! You did NOT!"

"Oh, but I did. Don't worry. He's probably still around, at least for now. You just can't see him."

She looks feverishly around the room. "What do you mean, I can't see him? Why can't I see him?!"

He chuckles hollowly through the receiver. "Suze, stop sounding so angry. I mean he's out of the living world now. Well, no. Actually, he's technically still in the living world, only no living person can see him. Not even mediators. That, to some, is moving on. Because really, how do you know that's not what happens to all ghosts once you send 'em packing? Maybe they're still there, you just can't see them any mo—"

Susannah squeezes her eyes shut, as if she was in pain, and slams the telephone back down on the holder. "No. . . no no no no NO!"

I do not know what to do. I want to stop her tears, which have begun to flow down her porcelain skin, but I cannot. There is no way for me to comfort her. I cannot do anything but stay near her.

My heart is breaking.

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Chapter four, coming soon. . .

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2004 by Carolyn