The ghost of girls drift silently up and down the corridors. Only a few of us can sense them. Their eyes were constantly peering over our shoulders as if to mock us for what we couldn't get away with.
Burnt toast.
Not an excuse. It still stayed on our plates, waiting to be relinquished of its existence just like how our minds had to relinquish control to the system.
No scraping the burnt bits off bread we were told.
Heads down, we studied and analysed each crumb on our breakfast and estimated the amount of milk in our coffees. It was all futile.
Somehow the voices of the ghosts found their ways into our heads and they snickered at us and drove us into anger. Control should have always been ours, regardless of the safety of our lives. And so we clench our fists and bring them down heavily on the table, only to be restrained and counselled for our misbehaviour.
The ghost of girls still laugh at us.
We were let go eventually. One-by-one we filed out of the building, and the sudden realisation of freedom dawned heavily with death upon us. We knew and learnt nothing more than the words of the ghosts and we follow through their hypnotic instructions to self-destruct and harm.
If you're lucky (which I almost was), plans in life take a sudden turn and they urge you to kiss the ghosts goodbye. But sometimes when plans fall through, it invites the ghosts back in and their presence acts almost like a calling for the obliteration of the self like the way the noose beckons death upon its victim.
So the ghost returns. She's sitting on the bed next to us, her hand on our shoulders. She speaks to us like the way anyone would but her voice stands out and amplifies in the air. She wants us back and she is determined to make sure she has us back.
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