Ghost of You

The wool of the sweater clung to my arms as the dark blanketed me. My swim trunks were stiff as I swung my legs over the side of my bed to sit upright. My nightstand lamp blinked on, suffocating my eyes. I squeezed closed my eyes, swinging around my arm to find the switch. Fingers gripped tightly around my wrist in one swift movement, the nails scratching at my skin. Blinking insanely, I peered out at the intruder.

“Hello, Tom,” his slick voice cooed. I yanked my wrist back, but he refused to let go. “I believe that's mine,” he said, his eyes focused solely on the pull-over sweater. Bill.

I took a shaky breath as he finally released my hand, plopping into my black swivel desk chair. I leaned my head back against the wall, hoping to sooth its pounding.

“At the lake,” I began. He appeared next to me on the bed, wrapping one skinny arm around my torso, using the other to stroke my hair. I closed my eyes. “Why were you there?”

I opened my eyes, turning to look at him. His eyes blended with his hair. He took one of my dreads and wrapped it around his finger, watching as it twisted and untwisted, again and again.

“I was there,” he whispered, “just because.”

I narrowed my eyes, shaking my head once. “I don't believe you.”

He let out a snort, pulling away and standing up, pacing the length of my floor, from the closet to the bed and back again. I felt myself trembling as I gripped my sheets, my eyes following his every movement.

“I don't trust you, either,” I whispered suddenly.

He paused midway to the bed, his blank eyes boring holes into mine. My mouth began to dry as a lump formed in the back of my throat, making me instantly regret saying what I had said. After a few moments, he began pacing again. He clenched his fists to his side, his eyes hardening.

“She didn't cry for me like that,” he said through clenched teeth. He stopped in the middle of the room, looking up at me, the fire ignited in his eyes. “I've been gone six years, and no one ever cried for the Lord to spare me. But you're a different story, aren't you? Mr. Perfect Twin over here!” he roared out. “Born five minutes before, Tom Kaulitz is the perfect guy!” he shouted like he was giving away a prize on the Price Is Right. “He's the ladies man, perfect complexion, can play the guitar, and everyone just seems to love you!” He was suddenly right in front of me, hissing. “Loves you and not me!”

I pressed myself against the wall, watching as a tear slid down his cheek. He pounded his fist against the wall, making me jump. “That's not fair,” I whispered.

“You're right, it's not fair! Mom and Gordon didn't even put flowers on my grave on the night of my birthday! But she buys you some expensive hat that you lose two seconds after wearing.”

“It was stolen,” I hissed defensively.

“Same difference!” he cried, flopping onto my floor. He pulled his head into his knees, rocking back and forth.

“I've missed you.” I said. He peered up at me through his bangs. “I would visit your grave and sleep next to it. I would talk to you. I would write you songs and play them outside. But no, I never prayed for the Lord to spare you, because I knew it wasn't worth it. I knew I could never get you back. Now that doesn't count, does it?”

I hopped up from the bed and he flinched, pulling himself back. “I never...”

“Just shut up! It's not fair. You complain and come around like life owes you something!”

“It does owe me something! It owes me six years of life and counting! I wasn't ready to go.”

“God had a mission for you...”

“Bull shit!” he cried, sobbing now as he stood defensively. “I never crossed over. I don't know how, I never knew how.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered, feeling myself relax from my hunter stance.

“I never made it to Heaven,” he said through his tears.

“Then where have you been?”

“I don't know! I don't know!” He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, shutting his eyes as tears fell from the tip of his nose. “I could tune in and out,” he whispered. “Sometimes it was like I was dreaming. Everything was fuzzy. At first I couldn't recognize anything, or make out any words. It was like I was a baby. I would see colors and things I didn't know, and I couldn't make out anything. When I would tune in, I wanted to escape the dreams. I would have rather had the darkness than had to endure that. Sometimes I would see you, but not as much. It would be a glimpse of you, maybe strumming your guitar, or walking down the street. But mainly it was focused on other people, people who didn't seem to care I was gone.”

We were both quiet for a moment. “But I cared.”

“So!”

I glared at him. “So my feelings don't matter anymore?” He looked at me, hurt. “It doesn't matter that I lost you? That I lost a brother and a friend? Do you know how terrified I was? I thought I was going to have a mental breakdown. Mom had to take me to the doctors, and they had to give me muscle relaxers. I gave up on them after the panic attacks kept coming back.”

He pushed his eyes to the floor, rocking on his heels, biting his bottom lip like he had something to say. Finally, he let out a sigh and looked back up again. He dug his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans. His bottom lip began to tremble.

“I … I didn't kill Carl.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but before I could question him, he was gone.