Ghosted

My mind warned me of the risks of falling, but I still tiptoed closer to the roof’s edge, pushing against its resistance. With every step, more of the ground came into view. Ignoring the screaming thoughts in my head, I balanced on the edge. I turned to face the other side of the roof, now looking away from the ground. I took a deep breath and leaned back. Finally, I’d be free from this hell.

…

Police cruisers, fire trucks, and ambulances swarmed the school grounds. Flashing red and blue lights cast shadows on the school building. Blood stained the pavement.

TEN YEARS LATER

I stretched out my arms and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, then rolled over and turned on my phone to check the time. I groaned as my eyes adjusted to the bright screen. 5:30 a.m.

“Perfect, right before my alarm,” I huffed sarcastically.

I turned back around and closed my eyes, trying to rest just one more minute before I actually had to get up. What felt like a second later, my alarm started blaring. Agitated from waking up too early, I grumbled and turned it off, smashing my finger against the screen.

I crawled out of my covers, shivering as the cold air brushed against my skin. I tried hard to resist the urge to run back to the warmth of my blankets and slowly made my way out of bed, heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth and hair. After finishing, I returned to my room and started searching through my closet for something comfortable to wear. It was the first day of school—not a fashion show. I snickered at my thoughts, knowing my mother would throw a fit if she saw what I was wearing.

Once finished, I walked downstairs to the kitchen and noticed a small sticky note scrawled in my mother’s handwriting.

“I got called into work. Sorry I couldn’t send you off on your first day. I’ll see you when I get home. Love you.”

.She works at the hospital in town—the only hospital—so she’s always needed and has missed many first days, but It’s not that important anyway, at least that’s what I convinced myself. I grabbed a banana for breakfast, and left the house, securely locking the door, and pocketed my key. Then I started my walk to school.

At school, I talked to the office to get my schedule for the year. At the top were my name, personal information, and locker number. I briefly scanned over my classes before refocusing on the locker number. I quickly memorized it while walking down the hallway in the direction I assumed it was. When I reached the number, I stuffed any unwanted weight into the confined space.

My first class was in the Main Hall. The school wasn’t very big, considering the size of the town. All the classes were stretched out on one floor, split into two halls. So I found my classes quickly.

The school day passed sluggishly, and finally it was lunch. Everyone got out of their seats and formed their little social groups. I laid my head on my desk, already tired of the new school year. I overheard the chatter of a group of girls sitting in a posse not far from me.

“Did you hear about the incident from a few years ago?” a girl mumbled loudly.

“Yeah, it gives me the creeps,” another cut in.

I listened in and out, my interest piqued at the mention of an incident. I didn’t catch many details, though, due to the noisy classroom full of gossiping students. I huffed and turned away from the group, pulling out my phone. If there really had been an incident at this school, there had to be news coverage. It’s a small town—anything remotely interesting would’ve made headlines. I typed the name of the school into the search bar followed by “incident,” hoping something would pop up. I had to scroll for a while before an article caught my eye.

Student Commits Suicide Off the Roof of Coldcreek High School

I sat up straighter, surprised I’d actually found something. It was an old page, dated years ago. Though it wasn’t long, I read through the story slowly, soaking in the information. Not much was known about the student—just her name and age. There was no info on her parents, and no family or friends were listed. Even teachers claimed they barely knew her. They all described her as quiet and soft-spoken, someone who didn’t stand out.

At the end of the article was a photo. Her hair was neatly straightened, her outfit wrinkle-free, and a soft smile on her face. She was very pretty—not stylistically, but naturally. Her eyes were a deep mocha brown, and soft freckles painted the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her teeth looked perfectly straight. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the picture that she was hurting inside… hurting enough to take her own life.

I jumped when the bell echoed through the classroom, breaking me from my thoughts and scaring the crap out of me. The teacher called everyone back to attention. I shook my head, pulled myself back to reality, and put my phone away. Lunchtime had ended, and class resumed. The article lingered in my mind for the rest of the day.

When the final bell rang, I packed my things and made my way out. I passed quickly through the hall, only slowing when groups of students blocked my path. After a while, I finally made it to the exit.

At home, I threw my bag next to my bed and plopped onto the springy surface, kicking off my shoes. With my face buried in pillows, I blindly reached down to search for my phone. As I seized it, it buzzed with random game notifications or unknown subscriptions. I pulled up the website I was looking at earlier and sat up slowly. I started looking into more articles about the incident. Most just repeated the same few details: the girl was basically invisible. All information about her family was non-existent—as if she didn’t even have one. The only certain detail was her name: Naomi. Some articles listed different ages.

I fell back into my pillows and sighed. I’d spent about an hour searching for more about Naomi, hoping to learn something—anything—new. But as my eyes began to strain, I gave up. The girl had seemed like a ghost long before she died, and it frustrated me. How had the school not noticed she had no family? Or did they simply not care?

I scoffed at the thought. Without realizing it, hours had passed and it was already dark. My stomach growled, so I put my phone down and headed to the kitchen to make dinner.

“Mom! Are you home?!” I called out. No answer.

I sighed and threw together a small serving of spaghetti. I made myself a plate and set the rest in the fridge for whenever she did come home. I ate quietly in the living room while watching TV. When I finished, I rinsed my plate and set it in the dishwasher, then returned to my room.

I grabbed a towel and a pair of sweatpants, then headed to the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed. My hair was still a little damp when I came out. I twisted it in the towel, trying to squeeze out the last bits of water before collapsing into bed. I bundled myself in blankets and rested my phone on my hand, playing a video to fall asleep to.

A few minutes into the second video, I realized I wasn’t going to sleep like this. My body was begging for rest. My eyelids drooped and my eyes burned with exhaustion. I turned off the video and replaced it with some relaxing music—“Raindrops in a Forest,” or something like that. I rolled over a few times before finally getting comfortable enough to fall asleep.