He’s haunted by memories of me, my husband is.

Of who I once was. I still live with him, my husband – although perhaps ‘live’ isn’t the best choice of words on this occasion. You see, I died some years ago now. Terribly drawn out affair. Absolutely horrific to go through; I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. It was a car accident.

Nobody’s fault, mind; just one of those freak occurrences. A lorry driver was switching lanes when his steering wheel jammed momentarily. He managed to regain control, but not before veering into our lane and collapsing the passenger side of our car. With me in it. I did not pass upon impact. Let’s just say my eventual funeral was closed casket and leave it there.

Oh, what a strange thing to say out loud. Still doesn’t sound right to speak on. If I’m being honest, I suppose I’m not over it yet. Neither is my husband though, poor thing. He somehow got it in his head that he could have done something about it. He couldn’t. Short of taking another toilet break at a service station. But I wouldn’t have let him. In his heart of hearts somewhere he must know that. I was so set on arriving in London before morning traffic.

He mopes around the house most days. Swears to never take another after me. Still puts on his ring first thing every morning. It’s sweet, but it crushes my heart to see him like this. If he did take another though I’d kill him myself, I swear I would. I’d crawl right out my grave, dust off my Sunday best and we’d have serious words. But that isn’t to say he should live like this. That isn’t living after all, is it?

I follow him around. He sees me in everything he does, wherever he goes. Not me me, as I am now. But the me he knew. Or better yet, the me as he remembers me to have been. He talks his thoughts out loud and I listen. But it isn’t me me he’s talking to. It’s her me, the old me.

Me with a body. With a beating heart and flowing blood. Me without a shattered body and ruined face. He calls me pretty, remembers me as I was in life. In many ways it’s sweet, to be thought of as you lived and not as the intubated spectre that clung to life for a pained handful of days.

But who he remembers isn’t me any more.

For me things continued. The marks on my face remain fresh to my touch, no matter how many months pass. It changes you, truly. My heart is dark with the unfairness of it all. Why him? Why me, why my face?

He frequents our cafe and I limp and follow, sit at our table opposite him. He reminisces and I enjoy his present company. I’m tempted to show myself. To let him know I am near. That I am always near. That I will wait for him. I reach out with a hand, so tempted to connect.

But then he calls me pretty again, in his talkings out loud. And I recoil. He’s haunted by memories of me, my husband is. As am I.