Day 1,966

I can't remember the last time I was warm.

I can't remember the last time I spoke to a living person.

I can't even remember how I died but I can't leave this damned pier until I do.


All I've heard for the past twelve years is the inane mundane chatter of thousands of tourists and the group of loyal friends who come here to drink to my death once a year. I kept screaming at them that I'm still here and begging them to talk about how I died but they never did.

In hindsight it should have been more obvious but death makes your mind slip away more and more each year and I'd do anything to stop myself from becoming like others I see floating around with fishing gear wrapped around their necks and cinder blocks tied to their feet.

So I did it. I waited until my friends were good and drunk late at night - they always snuck back after everything had closed so they could sit right on the fishing planks and throw empty bottles to the sea like it might bring me back.

Instead it brought them to me.

Well, one of them "fell" in after he saw a familiar figure running towards him.

Now he's with me and when he remembers how I died I'll tell him how I killed him and we'll both be free.