Kitt

January 4th, 1962

This thing I am on is called an airplane.  And, to be honest, I do not like it one bit.  I tried to convince myself that it would be beautiful being amongst the clouds and blue skies, but I was wrong.  Because all I have done is worry, silently panic with fear that too many things can happen, too many disasters, too many thoughts that I can't help but think.

"Are you alright?"

My mind skips a beat and I'm brought back to the present, "Hmm?"-ing unintentionally, staring up into the eyes of my father whose eyebrows crease with concern.  And then I realize I'm gripping his arm, nails digging into his skin.  I apologize and let go.

"'Sorry' doesn't answer my question.  Are you alright?"  This time, he grins softly, craning his neck to look at me, and I want nothing more than to hug his neck, have him cradle me, to not let go until we land.

But I don't.  I swallow the lump in my throat and lean over to see if Mom is preoccupied. She is curled under a thin blanket, red lips slightly apart, chest moving in a slow, steady rhythm.  I turn back to Dad and say, "I'm just...scared, I suppose."

"Of what?"

I shrug, hoping it comes off blase`.  "Nothing...I just fear something will--you know--happen or something..."  This time I dig my nails in my arm, leaving half-moon crevices in its wake.

"To the plane you mean?"

I grip harder, trying to erase the thoughts, the images in my mind.  "No...to the people onboard," I whisper so softly I don't think he hears.  And then, it happens--my head spins, past memories and images swirl before my eyes like a montage of nightmares: awful plane crashes; fires in the sky; hurdling landings in black oceans.  

I place a hand to my stomach, feeling faint, trying to shut out the pictures of the awful dreams that haunt me.  Lately, they have been worse--I hardly sleep and when I do it's only for a few hours.  I dread when the sun begins to set, knowing that I will soon have to slip in bed and try to sleep.

Sleep.  I hate that word...

"Kitt, do you need to stand up, move around a bit?"  Dad places a hand on my shoulder, making me look at his worried face.  "You don't look so good, Sweetheart. Would you like some Dramamine?"  Instead, I ask if I could have a sleeping pill.  He softly nods and bends to take a bottle out of his briefcase.  "Here you are," and he hands over a small pill. 

"Thank you," I say, swallowing it whole.  

"Get some rest.  We land in about four hours."  Dad hugs my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.  "Go on, go to sleep.  The pill should kick in soon.  I'll wake you when we're about to land, okay?"

Land into Hartford, Connecticut.  Four hours until we arrive in the state I will refer to as, Home from now on.  All because Dad got a promotion.  All because we need a new beginning, somewhere far away from our past, far away from Los Angeles, far away from the pain that clouds our lives in the smog of California.

I've seen pictures of Hartford, heard how beautiful and pleasant it is, been told it's a wonderful place to grow up in, that this slice of heaven on the East Coast is a charming town full of life and adventures.  To me, it looked like false hope--pictures of impeccable landscapes, photos of lively city folks window-shopping, all of it looked like a staged ad, like a magazine cover for some 1960s Utopia.

But Dad was excited to move, Mom even more so.  They were tired of living their routine lives, tired of coming home to just one child, having dinner at a table meant for four but had only three to occupy the seats, tired of commuting on the insane highways of the City of Angels.  So when Dad came home and announced he was promoted, that we'd be moving in two weeks' time, that his office was located in Hartford, Connecticut, the air shifted into an anxious atmosphere to get the hell away from California as soon as possible.

I never spoke in negative appeal to them, not wanting to show signs of boredom or unexcited vibes.  Instead, I mentioned how it would be a nice transition, a change of scenery, a fresh start before I begin middle school.  They never saw through my lies and that was all I hoped for.  I put on a mask of pleasantness and false smiles and let them believe it.  And they did.

Dad mentioned as we were boarding the plane that we could visit New York since now we're only a few hundred miles away.  He seemed keen on buying my affection, persuading me that moving to the Eastside will be great, went as far as to say that New York now has an automated subway, a fast-traveling train underground that is somehow programmed to run without a crew on board to manage it.  This piqued little to no interest to me; but to appease my father's stretched smile, I nodded and told him that this new automated train sounded fascinating and that when we road trip to New York we should definitely take a ride on it.  At this he became exuberant; even my mother who had been silent since leaving the house smiled and said in her sweet voice how she's looking forward to this road trip of ours.  But even though she smiled, even though her voice seemed normal, I could still see the hurt behind her eyes, the longing for something she will never have again, the pained look one has when leaving something dear behind. And in that moment I wanted to hug my mother and tell her everything would be okay, even though I was having difficulty believing it myself.  

The plane shakes suddenly and I squeeze my eyes tighter.  It's just turbulence...it's just turbulence....

The sleeping pill kicks in and I feel myself fade away, my mind slipping, my body going limp, my eyelids a hundred pounds.  

The turbulence subsides as I drift off.

"Okay," I finally answer my father.  And before I know it I'm fading into an unconscious state; but before I fall completely, I pray silently that it's a nice dream, not a nightmare, not a collection of faded moving pictures of awful things, no more vivid visions of death and plane crashes that always end up happening in real life once I wake up.

The Man in Grey always says: "There is a place of time for bodies, soul, and mind."  I don't know what it means, nor does my friend.  The Man in Grey gets angry when we don't understand.  He pokes us with needles when we talk nonsense, and I wake a day later, unsure if it was a dream or not.  Everything is like that.  I can't tell reality from dreaming.  My friend says this is something called, Psychosis.  He says Ghost told him this.

I Saw what will happen tonight, a blurry vision of tableaus, this pre-seeing that happens all the time; but never as graphic, never as horrifying as this one: nine o'clock tonight; a fire; a hidden door; four gun fires; red everywhere.

"What if we die?" my friend asks, eyes wide.

I look at the clock.  Eight-fifty-nine.  "We'll find out soon."

There's a brief moment of silence, comforting and haunting.  I close my eyes, breathe, grasp the edge of normality for a split second.  And then--

There's a scream, loud and piercing, vibrating horribly in my eardrums.  There's a blast of heat, giant flames igniting the room.  The Grey Ones run chaotically; the ones like me and my friend sit soundly, admiring the colorful flecks of orange, red, and burning yellow dance and stretch.  It engulfs a boy, eating him alive, disintegrating his flesh, leaving nothing but char and crimson.  At this, panic rises.  My friend takes my hand, leading us away as the Other Ones enter the fire as if they don't realize they'll die, as if they don't care if they die.  

We head down a long passage of blinding white.  I feel a pang in my chest, a horrible ache.  "Run," I whisper.  We do as The Man in Grey and three Grey Ones appear, chasing us.

We sprint to the end, but there are no doors, no windows.  We're trapped.  Then--flash--I See it.  "There," I say, pushing the wall, and, like I Saw, it opens.  We look out.  I'm struck with surprise, with awful realization.  My friend, however, looks sick, worried to death.  

"DON'T!"  The Man in Grey gains closer...

We look beyond, trying to find more.  Then--flash--I know.  I See it, rushing before me in color, with faces and details. 

I slowly pick up the object and as soon as I touch it everything makes sense, everything falls formidably into place.  I turn, point the gun at The Man in Grey, and pull the trigger.  Bang.  He falls, eyes shell-shocked.  I aim at the Grey Ones.  Bang.  Bang.  Bang. They fall, the white-washed hall now turning scarlet.

I stare absently, hoping this is just a dream...

The gun falls from my hand, the fire spreads.  I look at my friend and, finally, I feel okay, and I suppose this isn't the way I pictured dying; but I'd rather die by fire next to my friend than by needles alone in my room.

The fire burns closer....We await, holding hands, shutting eyelids, and I feel the heat upon us....

It's a lifetime before I peek, only to see no fire, no blood, no gun.  Just blinding white and my friend.  And, very vaguely, a pearly shadow moving towards us...

"This way," Ghost says, chilling and welcoming, entering the hidden door.  "Come. There's much to do now."

Perhaps it is the narcotics or the freedom or both, but I grab my friend's hand and we enter, not knowing what lies behind, not knowing if this is just a dream or if this is real. But, in the end, does it really matter? 

Last year I had the oh-high-and-mighty privilege of being my best friend's Maid of Honor, and at 20 years of age, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Oh, how utterly wrong I was.  I figured it'd be easy, nothing to fret about, I'll have everything under control once the Big Day rolls around.  Little did I know that the Bachelorette party would turn out to be one of the worst nights of my life. A night of which I will try my best to forget, but at the same time want to remember, an awful outcome on a fateful June day, a horrible experience that I've become nostalgic about.

Picture this: drenched forest floor, flyaway tent tarps, soaked clothes, and all happiness drained from my body.  Confused?  Let me explain in short: my best friend denied my plans of a nice dinner at a resort in the Alaskan mountains; she then told me she wanted an "outdoor" party full of "Alaskany" things; she then gave me links to different campsites; I then had to go out and buy $200s worth of necessities for this campout; I then reserved a spot early that morning of the bachelorette party, built a fire, shook my fists at the sky above, hoping the thunderstorm warning was just a fluke. Got the picture in your head?  Yeah? Alright.  Now imagine this: girls arrive; everyone talks; everyone drinks; the bride's younger sister (who was 11 freaking years old) kept trying to steal champagne; I downed two beers within the first half hour; and then--

BOOM!

Thunder.  Lightning.  Rain.  Lots and lots of rain.  We found ourselves drenched and all 12 of us were soon huddled in a tent meant for five, squished against each other, nudged in places we didn't want to be nudged in, squeezed inside this raincoat material shelter, trying to make the best of the situation.  

It was pushing on midnight when I noticed everyone was rather out of it, their heads bobbing, their mouths slurring, their eyes wandering, their bodies going limp from the rush of Screwdrivers and Peach Schnapps.  A mess.  Quite humorous, quite a sight to behold, but still a mess.  

"I love my dddoooggg," one girl slurred, bobbing her head.

"I have a cat but it died and now I don't and it's sssooo sad I might cry but I won't because it's kind of funny...." another spoke, hiccuping before taking a shot.  

"I have a cat," the bride's sister, Tina, spoke, the only one besides me who seemed not to be a drunken disaster.  "Her name is Lily."

Now, in retrospect, I should have intervened right then, should have leaped across the tent and body-slammed my best friend to the ground, clutching her mouth shut to keep her from speaking.  But, I was too late for any hindsight and the next thing I knew my best friend opened her liquor-soaked lips and began to speak in a high-pitched drawl, "You knooowww your cat isn't a girrrlll."

Shit.  No.  My throat went dry, my eyes bugged, my jaw opened wide.  What was she doing?!  I looked at Tina, hoping she didn't hear the wasted bride; but she did and she asked her what she was talking about.  And so, my best friend scoffed and said the one secret everyone kept from Tina for the past 9 years, "Lily isn't a girlll...it's a he...or at least it was a he...before it got fixed...now it's just an it...."

Everyone went silent, nothing but the pounding rain and quick gasps of drunken breaths.

"An it?" Tina squeaked, tears springing.

"WHY THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY THAT?!" I screamed, giving the bride a disdainful glare.

All she did was shrug.  "What?  It's the truuuttthhh."  She looked at Tina.  "You were going to find out sooner or later you knowww..."

"AND YOU THINK NOW WAS A GOOD TIME TO TELL HER?!"

Tina began to bawl.  No.  She began to weep.  Sobbed tears of sadness and anger, sniffled dripping snot and hiccuped choking coughs, eyes red, cheeks red, ears red, everywhere I looked on her she was red.  Man, she was an ugly crier.  And then, through her trembling mouth and livid eyes, she bore into the bride and sneered in a whiny, hiccupy, sniffly, all around pathetically induced voice, "YOU'RE THE WORST SISTER EH-EH-EH-EH-EEVVVEEER-ER-ERRR!"

It was by far the funniest thing I have ever seen.  The girl was a mess, I had already been loathing her the minute my best friend chose her to be one of the bridesmaids, and now she looked like an angry Smurf with post nasal drip, suffering a bad case of Ugly Crying and Pathetic Wussiness, and I know it's awful to say this, but it made me want to laugh and smile and laugh and laugh until I cried tears of joyful entertainment.  I didn't though--I bit my lips and tried to bottle the ridicules that pounded against my ribcage, scratched at my throat to burst out.

Tina bawled like a blubbering buffoon for two hours straight, not stopping until my best friend threw up the Peach Schnapps from her gut and apologized for what she said about Lily.  The rest of the girls were passed out in the tent, dreaming lost dreams of mimosas and bachelors; my best friend threw up again as Tina sniffled the last of her hideous sobs; and I, still holding in laughter, let out one little giggle.  One tiny chuckle.  One minuscule laugh that helped me get through the soaking sleeping bag, the crusty snoring of drunk girls, the drip drops of the leak in the tent, the sleepless evening of the worst night of my life.  And all I have to say for that is this: thank God for ugly criers.

{Based on true events}  

[Believe me, I wish it wasn't...]

They call her crazy, but I think there's more to her than meets the eye.  At times she can speak clearly, she can understand what I'm talking about, she can converse with me until I feel a tiny speck of hope that maybe, possibly, this is finally getting somewhere.  But then she snaps--her eyes change, her face twists, her voice cracks, and she is back to her other self.  

It's been years since she was first brought in.  Before, she was under critical care (numerous cuts and scrapes, several bruises and scars, countless head injuries); but as she gained health, she began to wreak havoc.  That's when she got locked up.  That's when they called me in to "help" this supposed "lost cause."  That's when I found myself plunging headfirst into a pool of uncharted waters, my only lifesaver being my own sanity.

"How are you today?" I ask, sitting down in the usual metal chair.  My legs cross involuntarily, my hands clasp lightly on my lap, my lips form a soft grin.  I strain my eyes in the darkness before she scoots forward, her hair a mess, strands covering those inhumanly large, blue eyes.  She tilts her head as if she didn't hear me.  I repeat my question, not breaking away from her consistent gaze.

I begin to wonder which side I will be talking to today...

She giggles--high-pitched, crazed, psychotic.  "Better than great, greater than better.  I'm doing swell!"  Her eyes widen, her smile spreading in a psychedelic charm.  "And you? How are you?  Tell me, tell me, how are you, Doctor?"

"I'm doing well.  Thank you for asking."  I pause.  "Why is your hair like that?"

She swishes around, sending frayed curls of burnt gold to dance on top her head. "Oh, you mean this?"  Her haunting smile spreads.  "I was running very, very, very late today and fell down a well."  She looks away, eyes gazing downward, her lips frowning.  "I died when I fell.  It was very sad."  She shakes her head, sniffling, tssking her tongue.  "Yes, very sad indeed...sad indeed."

"You did not die," I intervene, "you are right here, talking with me.  It was just a dream."

At this, she snaps her hazy eyes on me, piercing through like daggers.  "It. Was. Not. A. Dream," she says, her voice like ice: cold and sharp.  

I sigh.  "Tell me more about your friends.  How are they doing?"

This seems to redirect her attention and her eyes soften back to the usual dreamy look. There's a moment of silence between the both of us: her staring into my eyes, face still and blank, eyelids blinking rhythmically; and me, staring right back at her, trying to read her expression, trying to understand what goes through that mind of hers. And then, she breaks the silence.  "Would you like to meet them?" she asks, her head tilting, her smile stretching to her eyes.

"Meet who?" I ask, cautiously checking the door to make sure the guard is still there.  He is but pays no attention to us.  I turn back and see she's become giddy, nearly jumping in her chains.

"My friends.  Would you like to meet them?" she replies, twitching and flinching.  

"Your friends are not here," I respond, switching my legs over.

Her deranged laugh returns. "Of course they are not here," she admits, giggling nervously. "At least not yet."

This makes my stomach twist.  In all the years of talking with her, she has never once spoken like this--so crazed, so insane, so utterly mad.  I want to force myself to realize that it's not her fault, that she can't help saying these demented things; but, at the same time, there's this horrible pang in my gut, and it's telling me that she likes being this way, that she enjoys it, that this is how she actually is, that if she didn't want to be like this she could just stop.  And that alone is what scares me to my core.

"Well," she urges, scooting forward, no more than three feet away from me now, and I catch a whiff of her scent: strawberry tarts and Earl Grey.  That smell--her smell--has always been profound ever since the day she walked through the doors of this asylum. It makes me sick, both of disgust and curiosity.  

"You know you are not permitted to leave the room," I inform, giving her an inquisitive look.  "How do you expect us to meet your friends if you cannot leave?"

Her lips curl behind her pearly teeth.  "You could let me out.  Just for a quick second. No, quicker than a second--no, quicker than that--it'll be just ten-sixths of a second."

"Ten-sixths of a second?"  I lift a brow.  "That is impossible."

Her boggled eyes bore into me.  "Impossibilities are just possibilities waiting to be possible.  And I know a place where the impossible are possible. I know a place where everyone is fine if my hair is like this.  I know a place where everyone is just like us."

I clear my throat.  "Not us.  Just you."

She gives me a look that sends a shiver down my spine. "You are one of us now, Doctor."

"I am not," I state firmly.

Then, there's a flash in her eyes and before I have the chance to intervene, to change the subject, to get her talking about something else, she begins to speak.  "Oh, but you are, Doctor.  Everyone, really, is like us--some just don't know it yet or refuse to believe it. It's best to just admit it, avoid the denial.  It's fine, it doesn't hurt or anything--being like us is fun.  You get to see the world in colors unimaginable; you get to see things that are both unrealistic and illogical; you begin to see that being just a little mad isn't the end of the world, just your sanity."  Her smile stretches impossibly wide, her chained hands extend toward me as if inviting me to grasp them.  "You can be like us, you can go to that place of wonder...all I need is your heart."

My throat goes dry, my heart pounds against my ribcage, my palms begin to perspire. And through it all, I can't break away from her enticing and haunting gaze.  

"What?" I whisper in disbelief.  

She points to the left of my chest.  "Your heart.  I need it."

My eyes narrow, my mouth hangs open in shock.  "Why do you need my heart?"

"As payment.  For the Red Queen, the Queen of Hearts.  I was thrown out and forbidden to return, but if I give her a heart I may be able to return."  Her mouth opens in an awful smile.  "And I do so miss that place..." 

"No."

"What?"

"No.  You cannot have my heart."

"But you are kind!  Don't kind people help others?!"

I stand up, outraged, disturbed.  My brain tries to concoct words, but I am left speechless, completely out of sentences.  I stare at her, hard, and shake my head.  "What is wrong with you?"

She switches her gaze to one of anger, a deep livid rage that contorts her face into a sinister look of insanity.  "GIVE ME YOUR HEART!  I WILL CUT IT FROM YOU, I SWEAR I WILL CUT IT OUT OF YOU WHILE YOU STILL BREATHE!  GIVE ME YOUR HEART!"  She claws at me, shaking her chains, struggling against her restraints, screaming, cursing, biting the air.    

That's when the guard comes in, followed by two others and a nurse, who stabs the chaotic mess of a girl in the neck with a needle.  She slowly slumps to the floor, curling into a ball, an awful mixture of giggling and crying emanating from her.

The guards ask if I'm alright, and the nurse advises me to leave her.  I nod absentmindedly and wait for them to walk out.  I look at her, sprawled in a mess on the cell's floor.  She mutters something, repeats it over and over, and it takes me awhile before I realize what she's saying.

"Who's coming?" I whisper, hesitantly kneeling.  She doesn't respond, so I reach out, my hand grazing the tip of her shaking shoulder.  Slowly, very slowly, she looks up, hair plastered over her white face, her large eyes peering up at me dazedly.

"They're coming...they're coming...they're coming...they're coming...they're coming...."

"Who?" I repeat, searching her face for the answer.  Nothing.  Nothing but the constant repeats of her voice.  And I become fed up.  I become annoyed.  I try, every damn day to get something out of this girl, try to fix her, try to help her, but I get nowhere.  "Alice! Who. Is. Coming?"

As if someone turned on a light in her shadowed head, her face freezes and she looks at me intently.  Her trembling lips pull apart and she speaks, "The ones likes us...they're coming...they're almost here...they're mad...oh, they are very, very mad...madder than me, Doctor...far madder than me...."

Although it's nonsense, it still manages to make me shiver at the thought of that terrifying image: of more mad people, insane psychos.

I brush the hair out of her eyes.  "Get some rest, Alice."  And I stand to leave.

"They're coming, Doctor...my friends...they're coming..."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Alice."

"You'll understand soon enough, Doctor...you'll see I wasn't lying...you'll understand everything I've said was true...truer than true...."

As I shut the door I find myself clutching over my heart, feeling foolish.  I snap out of it, fix my skirt, pull a strand of hair behind my ear, and walk down the fluorescent marbled hallway, ready to leave; but that's when an ear-piercing scream echoes down the hall.  It pulls me down the whitewashed walls and I find myself watching three nurses rush into a room where the screaming vibrates out of and then, suddenly, the screams stop and is replaced with whimpering. As the nurses exit, I catch one by the elbow, asking what happened.

"New patient.  Extremely unstable.  Was found drowning mice in boiling water and then feeding them to starving rabbits at a children's park--said he was just having a tea party." The nurse peers behind her back and makes a disgusted face.  "Psychotic freak."  And she walks away.

However, I don't follow pursuit.  I stare absently at the white door, where the whimpers continue to protrude from behind.  And then, as slowly as I can possibly make my muscles move, I step to the one-way window and look at the victim inside: a mess of a man, curled in a ball on the floor, wearing a frilly green and yellow tuxedo, and sports a rugged green top hat.  He keeps whimpering and shaking and I'm about to go in and make sure he's not having a seizure, but that's when he stops, sits up, props himself to stand, and looks right at the one-way.  It makes my heart jump, but I calm it as I realize he can't see me.

He takes a step closer.  And closer.  And closer.  Until he reaches the window, practically touching his nose to the glass.  His eyes move around and finally, as if he has X-Ray vision, lands on mine.  He smiles, almost charmingly, and tips his hat.  

"Care for a spot of tea?" he asks, giving me a wink.

As I back away from the window I can distinctly hear the unmistakable laugh of Alice, reverberating the walls of the asylum and my slowly crumbling sanity.

Dear Mom,

When are you coming back?  I know you left last night to go find Dad, but you're not back yet.  I'm scared--not just because I'm alone, but because I have a feeling something bad has happened to you.  Please tell me you're okay.  Tell me you both are okay.  I know you can't because this letter is in my journal, but I just like thinking you can hear me speaking, can read the words I'm writing, can somehow listen to my brain.  Do you ever do that?  Imagine someone can communicate with you just by reading your thoughts?  I do.  It never works, but it's still fun to come up with things that they could be thinking. It's like a little game. I can teach it to you and Dad when you come back for me.

I'm rambling, Mom, and you know I ramble when I'm nervous.  I'm worried about you. I wish you would've let me come with you last night.  You didn't even tell me what was going on.  You just sat me down in this stupid diner, locked the doors and barricaded any type of entrance or exit, and then told me to keep a knife with me.  Why would I need a knife, Mom?  I wanted to ask, but you didn't look well. You looked really tired and scared and almost sick--you're not sick are you, Mom?  Is that why you had to go find Dad yesterday?  Because you needed him to take you to the hospital?  I hope that's the reason because I don't know why else you'd leave me all alone...

I heard awful things last night.  I know you say that sometimes our minds play tricks on us; but these noises were really scary, Mom. They sounded so real.  I don't want to write down what I heard, but you always told me to talk about things to get it off my chest, to make me feel better, and so here is what I kept hearing: guns, lots of guns, horrible screaming, people running, and an awful moaning sound.  I thought maybe people got hurt, or that they were having a nightmare, but something in my belly told me that the ripping groans had nothing to do with bad dreams.  The screaming was the worst, though--I wanted to go out and see what was going on, but the sound of bullets firing and people cussing made me afraid to go near the door.  That's when I began worrying.  I prayed you weren't in the middle of what was going on, that you were somewhere nice and safe with Dad there to protect you.

Mom, something just hit the door....

I know it's not you...you would have shouted at me, yelled my name, asked me to open up...

Mommy, I wish you and Dad were here.  Please come quickly...please, please, please....I'm scared. I know you've always told me not to be afraid, to just think of good memories and pretend I'm someplace else; but I just can't right now, Mom, and I'm sorry I can't and I'm sorry I'm crying and I'm sorry I sound like a baby, but I really want you right now, please...

I still have the knife with me, just like you said.  I haven't unlocked any of the doors or moved any of the barricades by the windows.  All I'm doing is waiting for you to knock on the door so I can let you and Dad in.  I hope it's soon.  I really wish I could read your mind so I'd know where you are, that way I wouldn't have to write all these letters that you'll never read.

The gun noises are back....there's a big explosion....heavy things whack against the outside of the diner...it makes me nauseous because it sounds like chunks of body parts....

I love you, Mom.  I love Dad, too.  

I'll keep writing letters to you until you come back.  I don't care how long it takes; I just hope it's sooner than soon.

Ninety-eight.  I have been rejected from TV shows, Indie films, student documentaries, movies, and even theatrical plays 98 times.  My parents say I should quit, to open my eyes, to realize that this "childish dream" of mine is never going to work out, that it's nothing but a faded fantasy of youthful wonder.  The scouts, on the other hand, politely state how I will "be kept in mind" and that they'll call me later that week.  I'm still waiting for a single phone call.  

Rejection sucks.  Yes, I'll admit it, shout it to the rooftops of Broadway and scream it at the top of my lungs: Rejection. Effing. Sucks.  And there have been more than a few times when I have stared back at that pathetic reflection of mine, talking to myself, saying if I was prettier I would've gotten the part, if I was more charismatic, a bit taller, skinnier, older, more experienced.  And more than once have I considered listening to my parents, admitting that I should give up my hopeless dream of ever having my name in lights or my handprint plastered forever on the sidewalks of Hollywood.  And right when I'm about to let go, to uncurl my fingers that are grasping so tightly and blindly and foolishly around the invisible rope of dreams, I take one more look in the mirror, one more gleaming glance at myself, staring into my own eyes, deep into my own soul, and, more often than not, do I find that little girl who would spend hours in front of the television, memorizing lines, practicing different accents and voices, reenacting scenes in front of her parents who, at the time, enjoyed every bit of innocent entertainment their daughter provided so effortlessly.  And in that brief, fleeting moment, I think back on those days of gaudy costumes and makeshift props and improvised scripts and imaginary friends and an invisible audience.  Then I smile and feel lightheaded and dopamine floods my senses as I reminisce in the nostalgia of childhood, the days when acting was fun and simple, when rejection was merely a word.

Like one of the funniest, inventive, and inspiring actors of the silent film era once said, "Actors search for rejection; if they don't get it, they reject themselves..." 

Charlie Chaplin was my idol as a kid, and I've always found his quote brilliantly truthful in the saddest way.  

So, in times of doubt and discouragement, I'll remind myself that rejection is a friend that I should welcome, a traveler that needs an open invitation.  

Yes, rejection sucks.  Failure sucks.  But one must look for it to become successful, one must look at the world and say, "You can reject me 98 times and point and laugh, but the show must go on, and I intend to be the star."

You thought I was gone, didn't you? Thought I kicked-the-bucket and went up to meet my Maker. Well, I hate to disappoint you buddy-oh-pal, but I haven't quite left yet.

I would tell you not to ask me how this is possible, but it being that I'm nothing but a transparent body of ghostly proportions, you wouldn't hear me nor would I be able to answer you anyway.

All thanks to you. I knew it was too good to be true when you knelt on one knee, held a stupid Tiffany box in my face, and asked me four words that still haunt me today: "Will you marry me?"

Only now do I realize I should've said no. I should have walked away, should have kicked you in the shins, should have chucked that ring farther than Tom Brady can throw a football; but no. I was stupid, naive, and blinded by love.

Speaking of blinded, I don't really appreciate that you killed me from behind. So not cool, dude. If you're going to kill someone, at least be a man and do it to their face. Geez. What is it with men not wanting to confront people face-to-face?

And so with me out of the picture you're with Her. I'm sure you know that I've hated Her since grade school; but I'm also dead sure now (no pun intended) that you didn't give a single care about it at all. You loved Her, not me. You wanted Her, not me. All you had to do was tell me and then I could've called off the wedding.

But no. That was too easy, too simple, too civilized wasn't it? If you were going to get rid of me you were going to do it with style. And with style you did. I must say using a crowbar was a pretty ruthless way to go; but, in a way, almost charming--you clearly didn't hate me that much to stab or shoot or strangle me; just enough to whack me upside the head and leave me to fall to my fatal fate.  However, I give you amateur points for the crime scene: an obviously staged car crash?  Really?  Golly, I expected something more suave and sophisticated than that; but hey, whatever gets the job done I suppose.

Now, although I'm not entirely a huge fan of being dead, I don't necessarily hate this new "life" either.  I hope you writhe in jealousy as you realize I can now see concerts for free and travel anywhere I want to and even be right in front of someone while they talk.

Which is what I did when you were saying your vows to Her. It's what I did when you had your First Dance; when you threw the garter; when you thanked everyone for coming to your stupid wedding. And since I'm going on a confessing rampage, I guess it's safe to say that it wasn't "the wind" that blew Her poofy dress sky high during the bouquet toss, nor was it "mother nature" that made all those pigeons dive straight for your dumb face during the ceremony, and nor was it the universal "accidents happen" that caused that five tiered, french vanilla bean cake to go SPLAT all over the dance floor.

Oopsie-daisies. You know I've always been a klutz.

Oh well. Things happen, right? Even things like your murdered ex-fiance (such as myself) staring you dead in the face as you open the door to the honeymoon suite.

You have a smug look on your stupid face as you hold it open for your newly-proclaimed wife. 

Well, at least chivalry isn't like me.

I take a seat on the sofa and kick up my feet on the coffee table.  Before I have the chance to blink you two are kissing and stumbling over to the bed.  Ew.  It's gross.  And I'm only now noticing that you're quite the sloppy kisser. Might have dodged a bullet there.

You both begin to tug at each other's fancy clothes.

Oh, not for long.

The sofa is pushed over and crashes into the table with a big crash and She screams like a little girl. You eye the scene, but make a face and tell Her it's nothing. You guys keep kissing. So, I turn on the TV and wiggle the dials of the sick stereo system; I flap the curtains and pull up the blinds so the night life can see you and Her as half-naked idiots, staring like bug-eyed freaks around the room. I fly through the wall and turn on the shower and sink and clog the toilet with hand towels and slam the door on my way out.

You're standing around the room, your dumb head whipping around as if this will help you catch the invisible mayhem that is now pursuing towards your newlywed.

There She is, cowering on the bed. My lone, long-time enemy, sitting there like a duck, just asking to be messed with. So, I take the advantage and pull her hair out of the constricting bun and tug at her dress and smash pillows over her.

In case you care, but I'm having a grand ole time.

You notice and come over in a panic, yelling what's going on, and how She's doing that, and telling Her to stop it.

Newsflash, buddy: she can't help it.

Just like I couldn't help dying.

Just like you couldn't help whacking me with a crowbar.

Sometimes us humans just. Can't. Help. It.

I shove Her off the bed and she screams bloody Mary. I jump on the mattress, swaying the sheets around like whips, throwing pillows at your face, kicking the radio and lamp off the nightstand which both crash to their demise. I fly past you and I swear for a split second you realize that I'm here; but I forget the thought and slam the TV to the ground, yank the curtains off their rings, knock over the mini fridge, chuck the champagne bottles and flutes against the walls, smash the box of chocolates at the window, and, finally, I kick you in the shins. You bellow in pain I presume, and punch the air. Your fist goes straight through my stomach, and it tickles. I laugh and that's when I am positive that you and She can hear me--if not the exact sound of my laugh, at least a messed up, hopefully more menacing version of it.

She grips your arm and screams, shrieking that this place is haunted. You shake your head violently, but keep your eyes bulging. Hate to break it to you, but you won't see me no matter how big you make your eyes look. It only makes you resemble a panting Tarsier. Don't know what a Tarsier is? Look it up, you uneducated dropout!

You take hold of Her arm and She slowly quiets down. I don't move. I just stare at you, hoping that somehow you know it's me. A few minutes slip by and you turn to Her with a relieved smile, saying how it stopped and that it was probably some "freak accident" in this old hotel (even though it's a fairly new Marriott. Ugh. You're such an idiot, I can't believe I ever dated you, let alone became engaged to you).

You both slowly walk to the bathroom, probably to turn off the faucets of running water, and I follow behind you. I flick the back of your neck as you open the door and you turn around so fast that She runs into your mouth. She shrieks as I tap her butt cheek. And then, I look ahead in the bathroom and am dumbstruck--nay! I am awestruck. Awestruck with utter brilliance and shock.

As if reading my dead thoughts, She stares wide-eyed behind you and points a shaky finger past your head. You ask her what it is and turn around to see none other than me, my reflection, groggy and faded but still recognizable through the bathroom mirror.

I wave and blow a kiss, and then run a finger across my neck, smiling cheekily.

I don't think I have ever witnessed you--let alone a grown-a** man--scream so ear-piercingly high before, and it brings such joy to my unbeating heart that I practically dance around in the air, laughing as loudly as I can.

She runs out of the room in her bra and underwear, and before you sprint after her, I pull down your pants, leaving you in nothing but your disgusting man-thong (I still can't believe you bought that hideous thing).

As the door slams behind you, I slow my ridicules down and stare at my reflection again. It's nice to see my face, to see my body still intact, to see my features. It's kind of creepy with the split in the back of my cranium, but I can live (or lack thereof) with it.

All I know now is that you shouldn't have done what you did, because karma is coming back to bite, and I bite fairly hard.