Ghost of You

It was quite a good size, the Listings' study. Cozy. Bookshelves lined the back wall. A small, pink flower beanbag chair was pushed against the far left wall underneath the window. Three two-seater couches were pushed in almost a full circle in the middle of the room. A large, wooden desk sat facing the couches, a desktop monitor on top.

Mr. Listing sat behind the computer desk, typing furiously away at the keys. His long, brown hair was a flowing, matted mess thrown behind him. His eyes were focused intently at whatever he seemed to be writing. He looked up at me for a millisecond before his eyes flitted back down to his computer screen. “What're you doing up?” he mumbled.

I shrugged, wrapping my arms around myself. “I had a bad dream,” I said softly, my eyes never leaving the floor.

Mr. Listing stopped typing and glanced up at me. “Oh.” He hesitated. “Well, are you alright?”

I nodded, tightening the grip on myself. Mr. Listing pressed his lips into a fine line. He grabbed his wireless mouse and clicked a few things, telling the computer to, I assume, Sleep. The white light emanating from the computer screen, reflecting in Mr. Listing's eyes, died out.

The light in the study faded, leaving us in the darkness that came with being up so late. Mr. Listing clicked on his desk lamp, pushing back his swivel chair and standing up. He went and plopped down on one of the couches, patting the seat next to him. “Come and sit,” he said.

I went and sat next to him, letting my head rest on his shoulder. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I felt his gaze turn towards me. “What am I going to do with you?” he muttered, softly stroking my head.

“Throw me out?” I offered quietly.

“Tom,” Mr. Listing said gently, the seriousness in his voice washing over him, “sit up. Look at me.”

I sat up, letting my eyes wander over his tired, worn face. He stared at me. “I know you've been having a rough time. Bill, Carl, your mom, Gordon, Georg, even possibly Anna and I, are all playing a part of this big ball of emotions that are tangled up inside of you. However,” he said, pausing, “there are ways to let your frustration out, and on other people is not one of those ways.”

I turned my head, letting my eyes wander on the other side of the room.

“You don't get it, do you? Tom, Georg was affected when Bill died, too. Sure, he probably can't hurt as much as it's hurt you, but it still hurt. I need you to understand that.”

Mr. Listing flung his arm over the side of the couch, pointing at some of the bookshelves. “There are a couple anger management books on those shelves I like to come up here and read whenever I feel ready to snap at someone. Feel free to come in here and read them whenever you like.”

I kept my eyes low and nodded my head. “Thanks,” I whispered.

Mr. Listing smiled and rubbed my shoulder, standing up. “C'mon, I'll tuck you in.”



Mr. Listing pulled the blankets up around my shoulders, leaning down and giving me a peck on the forehead. “Goodnight,” he said, smoothing down my hair.

I huffed out a breath as the door clicked shut. I curled up on my side, snuggling up underneath the blankets, my eyes shut tight.

“Bill,” I whispered, “where are you?”