Diary of the Gone by Ivan Amberlake Page B

him,”
she said bitterly, tears sparkling in her eyes.
    “ Well, many people do, but
how can I if no one tells me what I’m supposed to do.”
    She hid her face with her small arms,
her body shaking convulsively with sobs.
    “ I’m sorry.” I stood up
and took a step to her. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said,
although I had no idea what I was apologizing for.
    “ Telling you is the only
thing I can’t do,” she mumbled, sweeping teardrops off her
ash-colored face. “Although I can show you what happened to
me.”
    Next moment she vanished, and I was
startled by the sound of the door creaking loudly. A girl entered
the room, leaving the door open. It was Cynthia, but there was
something different about her. As she walked through the murk of
the room into the dim light, a bolt of lightning flashed, and
though I stood in her way, she didn’t seem to notice me right in
front of her.
    I took a step aside as she tiptoed
towards the old mahogany desk. Then I cleared my throat, but she
still ignored me.
    “ Cynthia?” I
said.
    No reaction.
    She pulled out the top drawer. “Here
it is,” a soft whisper came as she fished out a small book, then
threw a cautious glimpse at the open door. No one there.
    Cynthia sat on a chair and opened the
book to a random page. Together we read the lines scribbled
carelessly as if the person had written them with their eyes
blindfolded, or probably while being in the dark.
    “ They come and sit beside
me without saying a word. I don’t understand what they want from
me. I’m sick and tired that no one else can see them. Lucy and Dan
suspect something, and Cynthia keeps asking why I take my diary
everywhere…”
    “ Cynthia?” a hollow voice
behind us said.
    We both startled and turned. Cynthia
gasped at being cornered like a bird in a cage.
    A thin, blond-haired boy stood in the
doorway. Hollow cheeks emphasized his high cheekbones. There was
something menacing about his eyes that scrutinized the girl next to
me. His lips curved down a bit as he clenched his jaws, his
cheekbones protruding even more.
    “ I told you not to take
it. I warned you, and you promised you’ll never read it.” Lightning
flashed, reflecting in his blue eyes.
    Cynthia stood up slowly and put the
chair between them as a shield.
    “ I had to find out what’s
troubling you,” she implored. “You’ve changed, and sometimes I’m
scared of you.”
    “ Scared?” The boy titled
his head, entering the room. “Like when?”
    “ Like now.” She gripped
the back of the chair with her shaking hands.
    “ Now that you know,” the
boy’s voice quivered, “what would you say? Am I crazy?”
    “ Who do you see? Who are
you writing about?” she asked.
    “ The gone.”
    “ Who?” Cynthia asked, her
forehead creased in lines.
    “ I call
them the gone.” The boy paused, as if searching for the right words
to choose to tell the story. “They come to me before they die. If I
don’t write about them in my diary, they are going to haunt me
after they’re dead. Oh, and they always die.”
    My hands and feet went cold, my
forehead beaded with perspiration. “Holy crap!” I said.
    The room blurred, then withered to
darkness. A sepia-colored image of Cynthia and the boy walking hand
in hand zoomed in. A faint aroma of the forest wafted into my mind.
The sun sparkled through weighty, thick grids of leaves swaying in
the wind. Birds chirped nearby, hopping from branch to branch and
watching the two with curiosity. Where the Swamps were supposed to
be there were green meadows lush with growth, bathed with warm
sunlight.
    Cynthia and the boy strolled towards
the spot I knew too well. That was where I’d found Greg. I followed
them, just a few steps away. “I love being here,” the boy said,
pointing his index finger towards the clearing. “They don’t bother
me here.” He squinted at Cynthia who squeezed his hand
affectionately.
    As they stopped and Cynthia squatted
down to smell the flowers, the