"Haunted By Regret"

"The last days of this year have reached my doorstep.  I dare not look at the pages o f my life, afraid to see that I am still standing with yesterday and have not reached tomorrow once more.  Another year is about to die, and what if my life has not yet been born?  Where are the dreams of yesterday to light the skies of tomorrow?  Why must the present remain so dark?  How long will I wander lost in this world?”

As soft chimes filled the warm, comfortable space of the living room, Rachel lowered her journal to look at the clock.  Her eyes settled on the large and small hand over the 12, midnight.  A chill shuddered through her as she blinked.
“Once more upon this hour will he arrive with his song to tear at my heart?  Why does he do this?  Why come here, come to me?  Why must I be the one to witness his song?”

A low, soft whistle was heard.  The whistle lingered in the air, creating goose bumps along her skin.  The tune echoed inside her ears, and for a moment, Rachel found herself frozen sitting on the couch.
“Blood on my hands while a child cries. What have I done? Blood on my face as she closes her eyes. Her son runs away, and I am left to my demise.”
Gently placing her journal at the foot of the couch, Rachel stood up.  She rubbed her hands against her jeans, trying to kill the chill that has numbed her fingers.  Moving slowly, she approached the window and pushed a curtain aside.

" Blood on my hands while a child cries. What have I done? Blood on my face as she closes her eyes. Her son runs away, and I am left to my demise.”

" There are times when I never see him.  There are moments when I do.  I see a man pacing outside this window, back and forth and wringing his hands.  I see the tears flowing freely down his face.  He never once looked at me like I was there.  Did he even know I was there…”

A chill raced down Rachel’s spine as the man turned to look at her.  His soft, brown eyes had a glint of something, something dark.  His face was tear-stained, and his hands were red.  His clothes were faint, but it looked like the usual wear one man would have on during his days off from work.
“Why look at me now?  Why turn to see me?  You’ve been singing this song for a long time, so why turn to me now?
"
Blood on my hands while a child cries. What have I done? Blood on my face as she closes her eyes. Her son runs away, and I am left to my demise.”  He now stood against the window.  “Blood on my hands while a child cries. What have I done? Blood on my face as she closes her eyes. Her son runs away, and I am left to my demise.”  His hand pressed against the glass.

" Maybe these are the last words said before his life ended.  Maybe if I opened the book on his life, these would be the last words written inside.  Now, trapped from where he must go, he can say nothing but these words.”
Raising her hand against the other side of the glass, Rachel almost felt the man’s hand.  The glass separated their two worlds.  Yet, their connection lingered.

"Blood on my hands while a child cries. What have I done? Blood on my face as she closes her eyes. Her son runs away, and I am left to my demise.”
A moment later, he disappeared.  It was as if a wind came to steal him away.  All that was left were the words to his song and his hand print against the window.

"The last days of this year have reached my doorstep.  I dare not look at the pages o f my life, afraid to see that I am still standing with yesterday and have not reached tomorrow once more.  Yet, if I don’t look, what if the last words of my life are that I was afraid to look?  I am afraid of the unknown. My life has not moved ahead because I am afraid.  Will these be my last words?  Will my song haunt another one day? Will I wander lost in this world like the ghost that has given me his song?”

Copyright 2008 Melissa Mendelson