I know. I haven't updated this in a while. But because this drabble collection is sort of based on death, I figured I had to update on this snowy Halloween weekend. Yes, you read correctly: it's snowing in October. And I'm talking sticking to the ground snow. Mother Nature you are a misunderstood woman.
Thank you to Iwait4theRain! :3
"The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!" Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
~.~
The first thing he lost was her; the second was his sanity. As Chino sits, back against the cement of his cell, he can see him. No one else sees him, but Chino knows that he is there. He leans against the cell wall with folded arms and tired eyes. Chino was never one who bothered much with the occult—that's just something you never mess with. But at night he hears sounds echo through the halls, sounds that can't be explained even in a prison; Chino knows that these sounds are his doing. They are his way of letting Chino know he still won; she'll never love you now, his voice seems to call. She's still mine. Never was yours, and never will be.
It's then Chino hears what sounds like gun fire. A sickening feeling begins to build in his stomach and suddenly he wants to climb under the metal framed bed and hide. But he knows he can't hide from him; he's everywhere. That's what Chino discovers is so frightening about ghosts: they can be anywhere, take any form, and can stir up all sorts of sour feelings. You think you can hide from me? Sure, I couldn't hide from you, but now I have the advantage. Hell I could be under this bed right now and you'd never know it. Chino clamps his hands over his ears, begging for his voice to leave his mind and inhabit another's head. I'll never leave your mind; what you did will always be on your conscience. I may not always haunt you, but your actions will. It's your own damn fault you feel like this.
Chino mutters something under his breath, hands still against his head. He sniffs, and his nostrils filter in the scent of metal and blood. Chino screws his eyes shut and begins to say every prayer he can remember. Praying isn't going to help you now, he says. Chino tries to block out his voice, but it's no use. He swears he feels his hand vibrate, like…like how they had when he fired the gun. And he swears he feels the tips of his fingers tingle and burn. It's through this he learns ghosts don't only haunt houses and graveyards—they can haunt minds as well.