Ghost of You

It wasn't the same as in my dream when I fell asleep at the graveyard earlier today; his hair, I mean. Now, his hair was pressed down flat, instead of spiraling everywhere. His nails seemed shorter. He wore skinny black jeans and a black teeshirt with red words scrawled across the front, although in the darkness, I could barely make out the lettering. He flicked his eyes up to me, his face showing the only emotion of boredom. Dark semi-circles were etched underneath his eyes. The light from my bedside lamp barely shone on his pale body. I felt myself stuttering, having to remind myself to breathe. My head began to swirl and throb as he watched me closely. I grabbed a hanger from the floor and flung it at him, trying to see if it would fly through his body and hit the wall. It didn't. It bounced off of his head and he flinched, snapping his eyes shut quickly then reopening them, glaring. His face turned soft again.

“Get out,” I said, not knowing why.

His eyebrows flew up as he shrugged, pulling his knees to his chest and closing his eyes for about five seconds, then opening them again. I felt my throat turn dry as he watched me curiously. It was silent for a few minutes as I tried to think of something to do, something to say. Finally, I backed away slowly, his eyes following me, as I crawled back into bed under my gray covers. I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling my pillow to my chest, hoping he would poof away.

“I'm tired,” a voice said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I turned over and looked at him. He looked sad, tired, standing in the light. He was pale and skinny, his black clothes tight against his bones. The black paint on his nails were chipped. His eyes were a liquid brown. I looked at the floor, wishing I had something else to chuck at his head.

“Can I lay with you?”

I looked up at him, my body trembling. “You're not Bill,” I said flatly, turning back over again.

“Yes, I am.”

I sat up quickly, smacking him with my pillow. “No, you're not.” I glared at him, and he glared back. “Bill drowned. He died when he was ten. And you, sir, are not ten. Now, leave.”

He looked at me, confused. “What are you talking about?” he muttered, rubbing his eye.

I rolled my eyes, exasperated. Why was I talking to this … what is he? Something from my imagination? Most likely.

“I didn't drown,” he said in a panicked voice. I looked at him, seeing his wide eyes. “I've been here,” he said, pointing to the carpet.

I rolled my eyes, flopping my head to my pillow and closing my eyes. I really needed to stop before I upset myself and choked up who-knows-what like before.

“Tom,” he said, and I felt his nails pierce into the flesh on my arm.

I sat up and looked at him again. How had that hurt? Something from my imagination couldn't hurt me. I pressed the palm of my hand to my forehead. “Maybe Mom's thermometer was wrong,” I muttered to myself, not feeling hot at all.

And then he pulled away, letting out a sob. I could see the tears fall down his cheeks, splashing to his bare feet. “You can't do this,” he gasped. “I'm your brother!”

“My brother died!” I hissed, narrowing my eyes. Why couldn't I just stop now?

His body was shaking now. And for some reason, I had the urge to reach out and touch him, to reassure him. I didn't, though, because he's not real! … Right?