A Lesson To Be Learned.

I go, for the lack of a better phrase, away from my MO for this post.

Someone I talk to occasionally on a forum lost his girlfriend in a drunk-driver accident recently. He made this post in the sound-off thread. There's a lesson for everyone to learn in it.

"Athina, I'm sorry. I can't believe the last memory you ever had of me was that one. I love you so much, and you mean so much to me, I'm disgusted with myself. I wish we could have held each other for one last time, that I could show you how much I love you, how much you meant to me. I wish I was there with you, that it could have happened to us together. I can't move on, I can't live my life without you. I think you know that though, and the same would be true if our roles were reversed. Remember that promise we made to each other when we were little, that we would always be there for each other? I feel like I broke that promise by what I did. If I hadn't have been a selfish ass, like I always am in comparison to you, we would have been together. After all you did for me, all the love you showed me, I left you alone in your last moment. You died alone because of that selfish fit I had at the house. We could have died together in each others arms, knowing how much we loved each other. Instead, your last moment alive was one of pain, and it's all my fault. Athina, I'm sorry. I'll always hate myself for this, and rightly so. I pray that you remembered how much I loved you instead of that last moment Athina, because I loved you more than anyone could comprehend. Athina, I promise you this. I will devote my life to helping people in the same way you helped me and everyone around you. I just pray that I can do you justice, and that you will be proud of me."

      - Thrashtastic15 (Jon)

There's nothing else I can really say.

Memorial

He walked into the silent, empty hall. A feeling of peace washed over him, along with something else. An underlying sense of sorrow, fear, mourning. This place was full of emotion, and yet empty at the same time. The perfect place for him. He could feel the cries of long-lost souls begging for help, for remembrance. He reached out, let himself be enveloped by the spirits of the dead.
They welcomed him. He become one with the dead, felt their pain, their anguish at being taken so early. He reached out more, inviting them into his body. They responded, curious and suprised at the one person who heard after all these years.
He listened.
He understood.
He mourned with them.
He opened his soul entirely.
He breathed them in, taking strength from the energies around him.
He drew in their sorrow, their fear, their pain. Took it inside him, and kept it with him as he walked away.
He left them behind, and there they remain.
But he has not forgotten.
I have not forgotten.
I will remember them.
Lest I forget.

Clocks

It's silent. As it should be at this time of night. The only sound in the house is the ticking of the clock on the wall. You enjoy it at times like this. It's peaceful; the silence. The best time to think, and record your thoughts. The pad of refill beside your bed gets plenty of use.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It's rhythmic, the clock. Soothing, relaxing. As if everything is going right.
It's times like this when your insomnia doesn't matter. You think best at this time of night, when there's no interruptions. Apart from the occasional moments of paranoia, it's perfect. And that's all they are. Paranoia. Senseless paranoia. No reason for it, apart from your imagination. It's your imagination that's turning those night-time noises and shadows into something sinister. The footsteps are clearly just one of your pets, or the groans of the old house. The scratching and tapping at your window is just a tree. The shadows in the corner, just your brain trying to make something out of nothing.
Paranoia. Paranoia and imagination. That's all it is. But then, what's making that sighing noise? The wind? Probably. At least the ticking of the clock is familiar, regular. There's no mistaking that for something else. Unless it's the slow tapping of impatient claws, or fingernails. . .
Damn your imagination. Overcome with a sudden feeling of paranoia, you just have to get up and confirm that your fears are unfounded. Using your phone as a torch, you swing your legs out of bed. The clock is just outside your bedroom door. The ticking (tapping?) is coming from the other side of your door. You sigh. Safe then. But you know that you won't be able to sleep until you're sure.
Opening your door, you look around nervously. You glance at the clock. Strange, the ticking doesn't seem to be coming from the clock. You check the time. 3.03, the clock says. You decide to get a glass of water.
Suddenly, you get a message.
"Hey, you up?"
A mate. Just a mate. Nothing sinister. But, something on your phone catches your eye. The time on there says 3.43. That's weird. You glance back at the clock. Something doesn't seem right. It's not moving. But the ticking continues.
In fear, you rush back to your room, all thoughts of water gone, and back under the covers. You're too panicky to notice that the tapping has stopped.
You hear a sigh, what you thought was the wind before. It's by the door.
You can't move.
Whatever it is has you paralysed, at it's mercy. There's nothing you can do. It sighs again, closer, and you can smell it's rancid breath.
You feel something on your leg. Sudden, unbearable pain follows. The pressure moves up your thigh, and the pain follows. It's as if your very flesh was rotting away. It reaches your stomach. If you could move, you would've screamed, doubled up in pain. It's terrible.
Your lungs collapse. You can't breathe. Then, suddenly, it's gone. The pain, it's gone. It fades. But, so does everything else. It's over. You're gone. Slowly, but surely, you die.
And slowly, but surely, the tapping starts again.