Confessions of a Ghost

When I was alive I was so stupid.

I look back at my youth and the duration that I was alive, and I am horrified by how naïve and irresponsible I was.

In my defense, though, I was so young when I died that I did not have time to mature, to age and grow up.

Through my death I became an adult, an immortal adult who can only mature over the years, although in my appearance I look as though I am only twelve or thirteen.

I see myself in mirrors these days, and I gasp at how juvenile and ignorant I look. My mouse brown hair is tied into two pigtails that hang limply by my ears. My skin still contains the same zits that had sprouted up the day I died - sometimes I wish that people such as myself could have acne cream - and it makes me look as if I am going through puberty again. Large, circle glasses frame my mahogany eyes that give my image a girlish look. I am short, only about five feet tall but I have learned that size does not matter. My clothing is still a starched, button-down shirt with the yellow and crimson colored tie, a gray sweater, gray skirt and tights, and a black robe. Nothing has changed since those years and I suppose it is impossible to alter my demeanor without some complicated spell that Dumbledore or some other old wizard must approve and I do not wish to bother them with such a silly request.

I have been at this school for over fifty years...since 1942 when my death occurred. I can remember that fateful day as if it happened yesterday...

"Gee, Myrtle, your glasses are looking a little bit...well...ugly today!" Olive Hornby laughed cruelly in y face, her entourage chuckling along with her as they always did.

Having no friends to back me up, I mumbled some unintelligible response about how I could change them anytime I wanted.

"What was that, Myrtle? Is your family too poor to afford new glasses? Or is that muddy blood running through your veins ruining your transfiguring skills? Not that a Mudblood like you could have any. A stupid bitch like you."

It was as if she had slapped me. My head snapped back and I could feel my cheeks tingeing to the color of tomatoes. I couldn't take this anymore, this taunting from this malevolent girl in Slytherin. I ran out of the classroom, trying not to let my tears overflow from my eyes...that were surrounded by my huge, ugly glasses.

I ran into the girls' lavatory and slammed the peeling door shut as hard as possible and clumsily locked it. I sat on the closed toilet, sobbing like the world had ended.

I hated that Olive Hornby. Hated her so much with her shiny blonde hair and aristocratic nose and sapphire blue eyes and everything about her so perfect down to her tights. I wished she would die.

Suddenly I heard a boy's voice, deep and in some other language...it sounded like he was hissing...

I decided to tell this stupid boy to go use his own bathroom, and I opened the door...

The last thing I remember was these pair of yellow eyes just staring at me...and then I died...

I know who killed me, now. Thanks to Harry Potter, I know now that the young Voldemort and his Basilisk killed me. The bathroom that I had run to was where the Chamber of Secrets was.

It's funny how frightened I was of death when I was alive. I hadn't wanted to die, instead I had wanted others such as Olive Hornby to die horrible, torturous deaths, but it was I who died first...

Now they call me Moaning Myrtle. "Poor Moaning Myrtle," the students say as the rush about to their classes. I hear them talking about me, and I wonder, how pathetic am I?

I have a reason to cry, to weep and to sob.

My life was stolen when I was so young I didn't have a chance to live. And for that reason, I should be allowed to cry for all of eternity.

But I don't mean to.

One day, soon, I am going to ask Dumbledore to let me finish my education. Ghosts can still do magic, right? Then I will become a professor here at Hogwarts, this school that condemned me to death.

But for now, I am still depressed. Fifty years is not long enough to get over a lost life. Imagine if Olive Hornby had not laughed at me and called me names that day...

I would most likely be a grandmother of some young five year old children eager for the day that their Hogwarts letter would come. Whom would I have married? I have no idea, but I am certain that I would not marry some cheapskate who just passed my way...no, my husband would have been The One and The Only One For Me. I would have owned a bookstore called "Parchment and Owls" or something to that effect, and it would have been located in Hogsmeade. I would have lived over that shop with my husband and my family and my children would keep the store running after I had settled into retirement.

Those had been my plans when I had been alive and I would have followed through with them, too. Would my life be boring? Perhaps. Would I want to change my ways? Maybe. I will never be able to answer any of these questions because I never got to live...

I wonder when my soul shall be able to rest in peace. When Tom Riddle (also known as Lord Voldemort) dies the agonizing death that he deserves? Or when someone takes the time to listen to my story, my fears and desires? Or when I finally become happy with whom I am?

I don't know.

I can only say damn Tom Riddle to hell and back. He has made me live through hell and I can only wish the same for him. As for Olive Hornby...I made her life a living hell...and I can only snicker at her picture.

If only I had ignored Olive's insults and said to myself, "to hell with her. She doesn't matter anyway," I would most likely be living today.

But then would some other poor innocent victim be dead instead?

Did I deserve to die? Was my death more fair than say...a puny first year who had just wandered into the bathroom?

I have so many questions and no answers.

So I cry and I weep as I ponder about my existence and why I am here, on this earth in this deathly form. And I am paranoid about the students' murmurs and hushed whispers as they pass the lavatory that I now "haunt."

It is somewhat ironic that the bathroom that I breathed my last and cried my last droplet of water is my home, the place where I dwell. It is damp and messy, but I like it that way. No one else does, so I am alone in my ocean of misery.

The only time anyone has ever used my bathroom was a group of three cute kids, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter, who made a Polyjuice Potion to find the Heir of Slytherin in their second year at this school.

I have watched them grow into young men and women, as I watched their parents also, and I yearn with all my heart and soul to be able to grow again and breathe again and feel the cold, stone floor beneath my feet again...

I have prayed, hoped, and wished but I know my physical state will never change.

I can only hope that my mind will.