The TV flickers light up the dark room, throwing shadows onto the beige walls in a strobe like manner. When the adverts end, we are returned to the late night psychic hour, where people pretend to talk to dead relatives, angels and remove curses remotely. The show is a farce, but I let it play anyway because my mother enjoys it, She is getting older now and desperately wants to believe in something. How would she react I wonder, if she knew the truth, that beside her sits someone who knows first hand what it is like to speak to the dead, and besides me sits another, who herself has passed over.

The fat psychic lady drawls her uselessly vague, lame horoscope and the caller in agrees whole heatedly, as if every word is the gospel truth. And I wish it were, if only the truth was that benign, if only I could sit behind a nice desk, drinking tea and telling callers what the dead have to say. The truth is that nobody wants the hear what the dead are saying, not even me, but I can't stop it and have spent my life trapped in my own little world with it.

The house where I live is haunted, probably your house too, and every other home across the globe. How many goldfish have you buried in shallow graves across your yard? How many loved pets have lived and died in your house? And they are just the wanted ones. How many rats have died beneath the floor in your home, alone, hated and ostracized. We walk on the dust of things long dead, this planet has a history and it is paved with the bones of things once living.

I used to like the forest near our home, it was quiet and provided a break from having to block out the craziness around me. The presences I felt in the woods were more at peace, as if they had lived and died by the rules, while the house was filled with more malevolent spirits. They never hurt me while I was growing up, not that I'm even sure they could, but they made my life difficult and I couldn't help but feel like an enemy, as though they are jealous of my life. The forest is different, things living and dying in peace or at least it used to be, before I met Irene.

I feel it coming long before it begins, the air feels static and the world seems to flicker like the television on a windy day, but not Irene. She is more vivid than ever and just when my mother gets up to make a pot of tea, it starts. Her dress ripples as though beneath it flows a river and her long hair raises statically. I brace myself for what I know is coming and an invisible wind lashes my body, I feel like I'm inside a hurricane but around me nothing else is affected. Irene's hair gets a life of it's own and flairs out like hundreds of tiny snakes recoiled ready to attack. I brace myself as they strike, penetrating every inch of my body and then it happens.

I'm standing in the woods again, (I have been here many times before.) Ahead of me stands the girl, the girl I now know of as Irene and she stands frozen with fear. My gut tightens as she starts to quake and cry, I want to run to her and make her stop, or run away, but I can't. Behind me, I feel more presences, but I cannot turn to them, instead I must wait as they approach and walk past me as though I'm not even there. Irene starts to blubber wildly, and my fight or flight response kicks in, but I'm stuck there, an unwilling observer as the man pulls a gun from his belt.

The bullets hit Irene, toppling her backwards onto the ground and I feel their impact. I look down to see if I have been shot too, but once again it is only Irene. I want to go to her as blood wells out of holes in her stomach, but the people block my path and my feet are unwilling to obey me. I want to call to her to tell her it's okay, that I'm here but she can't see me and all is not okay, she knows it and I have seen this all before. The man kneels and begins to tear at her flesh, his two female companions join him, each taking an arm in their mouths. Their semi naked bodies are covered in dirt, giving them a dark appearance as they feast on her twitching corpse. My neck itches, while my wrists only tingle and I wonder if this was what her pain felt like in her death throes.

The man stands, facing my direction and for a long moment, he seems to be looking directly at me. It seems that way because he actually is looking at me, looking straight into my eyes. It makes my heart leap as I realize he can see me and my body shakes as he starts to walk towards me. I can't tear my eyes away from Irene's blood that covers his face and drips from his chest hair. I want to run, but my legs feel weak and the forest above me spins like a merry go round as I feel myself crashing to the ground in a feint. The dead leaves and bark become the course fabric of my mother's dated couch and I am back in my home again.

I look at Irene, but she is normal again, (at least as normal as someone who is dead can get.) She sits quietly as though nothing happened and I wonder again if she knows what she does to me. Her constant amnesia gives me a sense of compassion that is accompanied by a severe frustration. Somehow she senses my distress and looks at me, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. I fear her crying more than anything and she must know by now because she puts on a strong face and within a minute it is like the whole thing never happened. It seems silly that I could be scared of tears, even to me, but when it is happening I cannot stop myself.

"Jason!" My mother scolds, as she returns with the teapot. "It's late, aren't you going to take Irene home?"

"Yeah." I reply unenthusiastically. "C'mon, let's go."

"Thank you." Irene nods curtly to my mother who is charmed once again.

Sometimes I think she wants Irene to stay over, maybe she is waiting for the day when I will provide her with grandchildren and she thinks Irene is a good candidate for a daughter in-law. We say our goodbyes and step out into the crisp night air. The forest is dark and menacing tonight, the silence that follows Irene makes it more so. She floats along silently and I wonder if she has feet at all beneath her gown, or if they simply don't exist. I try not to think about it, or the vision, those men like, flesh eating beasts that roam the woods. I feel trapped, not wanting to abandon this girl who unwittingly tortures me, but at the same time I am too terrified to go on. I feel an invisible touch, as if I'm holding a solid breeze or maybe a force field and when I look I see that Irene has taken my hand. Once more she leads me deeper into the woods.

As we get closer her footfalls gain sound and I picture her feet crushing fallen leaves the way my own do. Instead I find beetles, meal worms and maggots crawling from the earth where she'd tread, each tiny insect rustling and giving of noise. We are getting close to the spot where the vision was set and my heart seems to race until I'm sure Irene must be able to feel it in my hand. If she does, it doesn't change anything and she leads me on until we stand on the spot where in the vision, I watched her life ebb away. The ground here should be upturned, I dug it myself that day, looking for her remains, but now it looks the same as always and she releases my hand. For a long moment she looks at me as though I supposed to understand what it means, and then she begins to fade away.

I'm left alone in the forest once more, an eventuality that I am more than prepared for, seeing that it has happened many times before. Knowing what I know, and having walked this path many times before I let the fear wash over me in waves. Sobbing gently I pull a long thin package from its position, tucked inside my waistline. I have done this long enough and have gambled with fate too many times. Not knowing has eaten away at me and I long to find the answers, they say hell is not knowing the fate of a loved one. I don't know if I even agree, but I can tell you that I cannot go on living his hollow existence. Unlike most people I know that death is not the end and maybe in a way that is a blessing. Something has to give and I have given all that I have, except my own life.

Gently I unwrap the knife and turn it over in my hand before drawing the back of it across my wrist. I wonder what will happen next and it is not without a little apprehension that I turn the blade over and prepare myself. If I am lucky, there will be nothing but the inky blackness of sleep, but I don't really believe it. I wonder if Irene will be here, or is she trapped on a different plane, a plane filled with demons and tormentors, like the ones I have seen in her dreams so many times before. I hope silently to myself that I will rest with all the forest, silently watching over the living, no longer caring about life itself. With this prayer on my lips I slice deep, shivering as I feel the blade slicing through my flesh. Placing the rag across the wound, so I don't have to look at it, I sit back and wait for the inevitable. The blood runs hot, making my heart race an I try not to think about it. Instead I think of waking up and not knowing what is going to happen, in a new adventure that is without the fear and confusion I feel here. Slowly a cold creeps over me, I feel tired, and like a child on Christmas eve, I fall into a death sleep with a smile on my lips.

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This is dedicated to HTMwrites (http://www.wattpad.com/user/HTMwrites) and the original piece of work can be found here, http://www.wattpad.com/41520429-irene-my-dead-best-friend

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