By the Living

Sometimes, the only sense I get my mother knows I’m here at all are the lengths she goes to in order to avoid me. The way she keeps her distance. How her eyes slide past wherever I might be, looking anywhere but my direction.

My whole existence is defined by negatives. Not touched. Not seen. Not heard.

Not really here.

A ghost story from the point of view of the ghost. That’s the premise here. But it’s not a gimmicky story with a twist ending where you only find out the ghost is a ghost in the final pages.

Instead, this is a poignant story that tries to explore what if means to be a ghost, what it means to be trapped by the memories and grief and guilt of the living, haunted by them as much as they haunt those who are left behind.