A dark night, devoid of even the faintest glimmer of stars, surround the small-town bar I used to visit often. I’m currently resting against the dirty concrete walls watching men and women come and go. Their laughing and sometimes bickering are of minimal interest to me now. I know my old friends are in there, wasting time sucking on cigarettes and drinking beer. I hear a bass thumping new rhythm and can almost see the vibrations creeping towards my feet.
I miss the place at times, but I’m able to go anywhere in the world I want to now. I am, what some would say, a ghost.
My name is Hope. I have not questioned this existence in nearly four years. I cried and screamed soundlessly for months after the accident. Furiously, I sought old friends and relatives, but to no avail, no one ever saw me. Not even dogs. Willing objects to move was useless. My hands just splashed through papers and coins. My frustrations were unsuccessful. Soon, days turned into weeks, weeks into years, and here I am now. Alone as ever.