Ghost (written by Teniola Shobowale)
Joe Edmond proposes a very interesting argument. How does a dead person tell their story? Depending on the type of person you are, your answer will vary. Are ghosts real? No. So what?
At the point of her death Megan seems to have finally found the answer. Me, as she stares at the dilated pupil of her murderer all she thinks is, this guy, he would be the only person to recall my death, maybe a little wrongly though. She thinks he’ll probably describe the way she screamed as being the pathetic screeching of an already dead girl. No, she thinks; if I walk away from this I will definitely lose my voice for a long time. She’s never screamed this much, not even when she was a constant victim of bullying, to be honest, she felt proud of her strong vocal chords. Those singing lessons her parents made her take to get her out of their way is definitely paying off now. At least that is something that they can congratulate themselves for she thought.
The truth is Megan knew no one would be able to tell the truth of the story. There are three sides to this murder, the telling of her side of the story, which would be she fought to the end, strong brave beautiful young girl. And his side, he probably doesn’t want to do it… Young handsome black teen, probably has no choice, forced by a gang leader or some stereotypical garbage on that line. But for both sides they’ll be someone out there who cares enough to rant about it. And the truth, we are all just in this messed up cycle called life. But no one likes to face the truth, it’s too much of a hassle, there has to be someone to blame right? They’ll be someone who blames her, her skirt was too short, what was a young girl like her doing out alone at this time of the night? Someone would see her fault, but she won’t be here to defend herself.
As he finally holds her down dragging her off the street into a dark hallway, his strong arm gripping her neck in a head lock, she thinks, will he rape me? At this point she ponders on losing her virginity to die or not losing her virginity at all and dying. She stopped screaming, she cried, she pleaded. It’s not necessary a cold night, in fact for mid November its warm. She was about to meet an old friend for a drink, she had a plan, talk him out of ruining his life. But hers was ruined, just when things were starting to look up. After her brother ran away, after the death of her father, she was meant to finally return back home tomorrow to see her mother, make amends for leaving her all by herself, for not coming for the funeral. As her head hit the gravelled ground, she remembered a book she read for her literature exam. Megan concluded fortune’s a right whore.
The truth is no one will ever know, Megan didn’t die fighting, at some point as her murderer tightened his grip on her throat she stopped pleading, she stopped fighting, she stared at the sky and thought of her untold story. Her unfinished pages, she never found love, never felt it, she never saw the face of her unborn child, never felt the bittersweet experience of childbirth. As her murderer’s eyes came into view, she didn’t know if this was some sort of near death sense, but she saw the fear in his eyes, she heard his apologies, how he would rot in a cell whispering his apologies over and over again every night. As the light faded she wanted to say it’s okay, it’s just a messed up world. It’s just a messed up world. She wanted to tell him to tell his story, make it the greatest story ever told.