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Dear Ray,
I’m just going to say that I was really surprised to see you come to my grave and drop off a letter. Now, that is to say, I wasn’t surprised to see you come to my grave, but the dropping off a letter part is what threw me off. Most of the time, when someone else visited, they just talked to the cold stone that is my grave, but you… you did something different. I was also surprised that I could actually interact with it too. It was weird, like when I touched it, I created a ‘spiritual clone’ of it, one that I could actually read.
By the way, I should have said this at the beginning of the letter, but I am writing this with paper and pen that I literally conjured up, and I am also writing this even though I know you won’t receive it.
With that in mind, I just wish I could tell everyone that I’m sorry. Especially Kara, she was a mess at the funeral, and I’m sure she’s not any better now.
I didn’t exactly plan on dying that morning… I didn’t plan on… dying at all, actually.
Dying hurts Ray, take my advice and don’t do it, okay?
Try and smile.
Your ex co-worker,
Joel Heyman
P.S. Congrats on the typically correct grammar.
--
Dear Sir Ray Narvaez Jr.
I can be funny too, see?
Even though you didn’t read my last letter, I read yours, and no I wasn’t mad at you for the letter. How could I be? I don’t blame you for writing another “sad” letter either, everyone is having a rough time, and it just shows how much you care (or is it ‘cared,’ past tense, or whatever) about me.
So I realized after my last letter, I should try and put into words what’s happening with me right now.
I wouldn’t call this a purgatory of sorts, and I wouldn’t call myself a ghost… More like I am still existing. My soul is still here on earth, and I still have a shape or a form or something that I could call a ‘body’ but it’s not actually physical. Well, not physical to your realm. It’s like I’m on a shifted plane of existence from yours, like a radio sequence that’s just slightly different from what your radio is tuned to….
There are others here in the grave, other people that I don’t really care for talking to, and they generally don’t bother me because I am new to death and they usually give people plenty of time to adjust before speaking to them. At least that’s what one guy said to me.
I can’t leave the graveyard.
I tried, honest. The graveyard keeps my soul together somehow. Like I stuck my arm out past the gate, and it… like… broke apart and disappeared until I pulled it back in. I was rather shocked that my arm was gone though! More like horrified, if I want to be honest about my verbs.
Most of this letter is me trying to understand my situation, and I really, really wish you could read this letter so you could help me out or something.
I don’t particularly like not knowing what’s going on.
I eagerly await your next letter Ray.
The not-so-much-a-ghost,
Joel Heyman
--
Dear RAAAAAAAAAYYYY,
Third letter in a week? I don’t care at all, honest.
Mail takes forever, doesn’t it, but I wonder if you think a letter actually gets mailed to Heaven or Hell. You probably think I’m in hell don’t you?
But no, I’m not exactly having fun, then again, I don’t really feel anything. It’s like… I am not awake often. I blink and it’s a different time of day.
Thanks for the compliment, luckily for me, I my spirit body looks like I did before I got turned into mashed human, so I’m still a fairly good-looking ghost... thing…
What the fuck am I?
No, Ray, I will not be sending Babes your way, because I know you aren’t into necrophilia, also the women that are here are not that good looking.
I don’t find ‘dead’ to be that attractive though, so that might just be a personal thing.
The good looking dead person,
Joel Heyman
--
Ey! Ray!
Fuck traditional letter writing!
Yes, Ray, the sun comes up every morning, but I understand your need to spout some metaphor for hope and a new dawn and all that shit. I’d do it too.
Although, I think you coming here to the grave and singing Kelly Clarkson at the top of your lungs would get most of us laughing, practically pissing ourselves in laughter if we still had functioning organs.
We need a reason to laugh.
Also, now you are insulting me? Great, glad to know I was the nuttiest out of the whole office, that really says something, you know?
I need to say that I do appreciate your letters, It’s like… I blink and here you are again, leaving a letter.
Sometimes I wish you’d stay and talk or something, I mean, it’s not like Burnie doesn’t do that often enough, but usually he comes here and drinks himself stupid. I can’t drink, so I can’t enjoy him for very long.
Someone really should look after him.
Actually, you all should look out for each other still.
Waiting for the next letter,
Joel Heyman
--
Goddammit Ray,
I’m not sending you any ‘babes.’
This isn’t an anime where angels, demons, or ghosts are hot, dead people are dead.
An irritated dude,
Joel Heyman
--
DON’TWORRYMYLITTLEPUERTORECANIT’SFINE,
Time doesn’t flow the same when you are dead. Three weeks literally disappeared in a blink of an eye for me. It’s like I fall asleep, and only wake up when someone visits.
Congrats on learning how to ride a bike! Your knees did look like shit though, why didn’t you fucking wear knees pads. Did you feel like a man, when you fell to the ground?
Now I’m the one paraphrasing song lyrics. Not that I claim to have listened to them…. You know… that band... yeah, I don’t listen to them.
I swear.
….
Ray…. You know I can’t visit…..
Don’t say things like that… please?
-Joel Heyman
--
Dear Ray,
I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw you standing there, with your fist clenched tightly around the letter. You were trembling with anger….
You were really mad, weren’t you?
Ray, what’s going on with you?
God, I wish you could get my letters, so I could tell you to just relax and take your mind off me for a bit. Maybe it was for the better that people stopped giving your rides here. I’m sure the biking must be taking a toll on you too, the cemetery is nowhere near your apartment…
A man that’s worried about you,
Joel Heyman
--
Hi Ray,
Yes, I did like storms, I’m surprised you knew that.
Ray… Ray I know… I know why you hate storms…. I get it.
I’m sorry… in way it’s my fault, but you’d never want me to blame myself, I know….
God, this sucks, I’m starting to worry about you when I should start worrying about myself….
I’m… like… flickering now…
And I’ve noticed there are fewer people, people like me, around here. They were here yesterday, but they aren’t today. Maybe they… moved on or something…
I have to wonder if that’s going to happen to me.
I’m glad you don’t have to worry about me because you can’t read these letters, you already seem to be having plenty of problems.
I’m sorry…
--Joel Heyman
--
Ray,
It was hard for me to forget the panic in your face when you dropped off the letter about the phone. You looked horrified, as if I was actually mad at you.
I wish I completely understood what’s going on in your head right now.
The way you muttered “I’m sorry” over and over again at my gravestone before leaving really has me worried.
You should go talk to someone.
Please?
For me?
--Joel Heyman
--
Happy Halloween Ray,
The cemetery was noisy with a bunch of little shits thinking it’s okay to be here. In a way it was, because people weren’t sad, just being stupid.
You know, jumping off shit and what not.
They brought life to the usually dead earth around here.
By the way, I ‘dressed up’ too,
You guess was wrong, I was a “ghost”
Hahhaha. I’m funny.
Your ghost of a pal,
Joel Heyman
--
Merry Christmas Ray,
What the fuck were you doing, visiting my grave on fucking Christmas day?
It’s great that it snowed, I was here, I saw it, but what the fuck Ray.
Christmas is for your friends.
Your living friends and family, not me.
You need to stop coming here Ray.
It’s not healthy anymore.
Besides… I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep replying to you.
I’m like… flickering out.. and the times I’ve been ‘sleeping’ seem to get longer.
I don’t feel as together as I did before…
Heh…
Merry Christmas Ray,
Also…. Why? Why did you give me a stuffed animal?
Because you knew I wanted a pet, so you gave me one for the afterlife or something?
It looks like Joe.
Goddammit Ray.
I know it wasn’t from everyone at the office, it was just you.
You are starting to scare me Ray,
And I’m fucking dead.
--Joel Heyman
--
Ray,
Don’t… don’t ever say shit like “It would be easier for you to visit, than for me” again.
That makes it sound like you were going to do something.
Don’t. Don’t fucking say that shit again.
You don’t want to be dead.
You can’t actually ‘feel’ anything, you can react how you are supposed to but you aren’t actually feeling anything. You can’t feel warmth, or cold, you can’t actually feel the happiness bubble inside you when you see someone smile at you, you can’t get truly mad at them when they say stupid shit either.
You can re-create a similar effect, but it’s not true feelings….
Goddammit Ray!
--
Ray,
Ray, even if I disappear or whatever is happening to me, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment when you showed up at my grave today. The letter that wasn’t even in an envelope, crumpled in your fingers… The way you hesitated looking at my grave and then…. And then you feel to your knees.
I won’t forget that the fury in your eyes as you cried. I won’t forget that.
I won’t forget how you screamed at my grave, telling me how much you hated me. The pain in your voice as you screamed until your voice grew hoarse and you couldn’t scream anymore.
I won’t forget how red your eyes were, how they burned with betrayal, as if I tore out your heart by dying.
I won’t forget this.
I can’t.
I took this moment, and etched it into my being. Not sure how, but I did.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to you Ray.
Please forgive me Ray.
Joel
--
Ray,
I don’t think I can write letters anymore… I can’t make this ‘paper’ appear anymore….
Like… I can but… everything is fuzzy, and I just… I can’t even read what I’m writing…..
I’m sorry.
But Burnie is right, you shouldn’t write me letters… you need to get help.. .and move on…
Please….
Joel
--
Dear Ray,
It’s been one year since I’ve died. Nearly one year since you started writing me letters, and this will be the last reply I can give you. With every word I write, I feel my existence slipping away. Every letter is harder to make, but I will do this, I will do this for you.
I’m sorry Ray. I’m so sorry that I’ve given you as much pain as I have, with no way of helping you heal. I’m so sorry that I ripped a wound into your heart with no way of stitching it back together.
I’m so sorry that this happened, and I wish I wasn’t dead.
I wish I could continue being here until you yourself die, hopefully from old age, but I know that’s not possible.
I can’t hold myself together anymore, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
As a matter of fact, I think we’ll meet again, somehow. Maybe I’ll get reborn, or you’ll die and we’ll be together in ‘heaven’ or wherever the fuck I’m going….
But I feel that we’ll meet again.
I love you too, Ray.
From someone that loves you just as much,
Joel Heyman.