Dead Lorraine

by Zvi A. Sesling

I awoke in the middle of the night to a woman standing at the end of my bed. I live in a small apartment: one bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom, and I certainly did not know this woman.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Dead Lorraine,” she answered.

“Dead?”

“Yes. You killed me. I was June, but here they renamed me Lorraine.”

“June, I don’t know—ever knew—a June,” I answered, scared of the apparition.

“It was many years ago; you were twelve, I was nineteen.”

“So I didn’t know anyone your age when I was twelve. Certainly wouldn’t have killed you.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“I’ve killed a few people. My gang made me. Later at a bank robbery, but never when I was twelve.”

“You remember stealing your stepfather’s car?”

“Yes.”

          “You remember taking that turn and going up on the curb?”

          “Yes.”

          “Remember hitting that woman standing there waiting for the light to change so she could cross?”

          “Not really, but the police told me and that I knocked down the light pole.”

          “And then?”

          “They sent me to juvenile prison.”

          “Not punishment enough.”

          “I was bullied, beaten, and raped. Isn’t that enough?”

          “No. You deserve more.”

“What?”

          “Death, like mine.”

At this point, I should note that I was sure I was having a bad dream, like Scrooge, perhaps from an undigested piece of meat, except I had not eaten meat for any of the three meals or snacks I had consumed during the day and evening. I sat up straight and confronted her.

“Look, lady, what happened all those years ago was purely an accident, a preteen acting out. It cost me, physically and mentally. I’m truly sorry as to what happened, but I paid the price.”

“Not really,” she answered, “you are still here, and I am not.”

“Well, at least ghosts can’t kill me.”

“Oh, but we can,” she said, “perhaps not with a gun or knife, but we can have someone corporeal do it for us.”

With that, she faded into nothingness and left me to wonder and worry when and where, how and who. I had to admit to myself, I’d worry the rest of my days, no matter how many I had left.

Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published numerous poems and flash/micro fiction and won international prizes. A five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he has published four volumes and three chapbooks of poetry. His flash fiction book is Secret Behind the Gate. He lives in Brookline, MA. with his wife Susan J. Dechter.