When I just passed out as a young soldier, I followed my siblings to our church youth program which is on Friday night, one girl entered trance because she kept beating everyone with brooms , saw me sitting down gallantly pressing my phone and rushed to my roll,
I was telling someone the other day, “Sometimes I get so excited while reading that my eyes jump ahead and skip whole paragraphs, and I have to make myself go back and reread what I missed.”
They looked at me and said, “No one does that.”
Please tell me I’m not the only one 😭😩
Someone here told a story about an intelligent first-class law graduate who was driven into prostitution by the trauma of sexual abuse by her uncle.
Just saying tho.
My sister called me at 2:00 AM. She was crying.
"Come get me. Please. I think my husband is dead."
I was already putting on my shoes.
"Where are you?"
"The closet. He's in the bedroom. He's been standing there for three hours. He hasn't moved."
"Who hasn't moved?"
"Tom. My husband. But it's not Tom."
I drove to her house in fifteen minutes. She lives twenty minutes away.
I didn't knock. She left the back door unlocked like she said.
I found her in the bedroom closet. Kneeling behind her winter coats. Shaking.
I pulled her out.
"Where is he?"
She pointed to the bed.
No one was there.
"He was here," she whispered. "Standing right there. Facing the wall. For three hours."
I checked the whole house. Empty.
Her car was in the driveway. His car was gone.
"Claire. Where is Tom?"
She looked at me. Her eyes were strange. Not scared. Confused.
"Tom died," she said. "Three years ago. You were at the funeral."
I stared at her.
"Claire. I was at your wedding. Last year. I gave a toast. You cried."
She shook her head.
"That wasn't Tom. That was someone else. Someone wearing Tom."
I sat down. My legs felt wrong.
"Claire. You're scaring me."
She grabbed my phone. Opened my photos. Scrolled to her wedding.
"That's not Tom," she said, pointing at the groom.
It was Tom. Same face. Same smile. Same suit.
But she was right about something.
His eyes were wrong. In every photo. Too dark. Too still. Like a photograph of a photograph.
I looked at Claire.
"Who did you marry?"
She started crying again.
"I don't know. I don't remember. I just remember waking up one day and he was there. Making coffee. Calling me honey. And I thought... I thought I was going crazy. Because I knew Tom was dead. But he looked like Tom. He sounded like Tom."
She grabbed my arm.
"So I pretended. For a year. I pretended he was Tom. I pretended everything was fine. But last night, I woke up. And he was standing at the foot of the bed. Facing the wall. Not moving."
"What did he say?"
"He didn't say anything. He just stood there. For hours. I watched him. And then I realized."
"What?"
"He wasn't breathing."