Status: Finished.
Amazing, Because It Is.
We're All Dying in the End.
If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever. - The Crow.
“Ignoring me won’t make me go away,” the ghost sang with a distinctly condescending lilt, having taken a liking to popping up around my room and scaring the living daylights out of me. Now that I was teetering on the edge of paranoid and constantly prepared for his appearance, – no longer fun - he was lounging on my window seat, watching me with rapt attention as I unpacked, tucking little knickknacks into places they seemed to fit.
“You’re not real. You’re a figment of my imagination. I’m crazy,” I muttered, chanting the assurances more to myself than to him, whilst setting out the framed picture of me and Jeremy on my nightstand.
“Who’s that, your boyfriend?” the apparition inquired, causing a barely noticeable disturbance in the air when he moved - the slightest rustle really, as he reappeared on my bed.
“My brother,” I snarled, my irritation abrasive; more than evident. Not only was he cocky, arrogant, and beautiful - he was nosy.
“I am real,” the ghost insisted abruptly, his attention veering back off to the previously left behind subject. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed that he had suggested my brother was my boyfriend, or if he just had that short of an attention span. “And you’re not crazy.”
I was preparing my retort, which was guaranteed not to be polite, when I was interrupted by my bedroom door being pushed open, following one sharp rap of a perfunctory ‘knock.’ Parents think that as long as they knock, you aren’t permitted to tell them off about invading your privacy abruptly. Waiting to hear a response after the knock: what a preposterous idea!
“How do you like the room?” my dad inquired, appearing not to be surprised in the least by the ghostly presence standing right in front of me. With a jolt, I realized that he wasn’t looking at the phantom teen; but rather looking through him to me.
“It’s – uh, great, Dad,” I mumbled, expelling a heavy sigh of air, unable to muster any scrap of enthusiasm for my expectantly waiting father, who had taken immediately to masking his grief with fake cheer following the death of his son. It was almost worse than Mom’s depression. Almost. At least he actually made an effort to seem human.
“I’m glad you like it,” he responded with more than enough zeal and alacrity to blanket the both of us, reaching through my spectral visitor to pat me on the shoulder. “Is it chilly in here?” he pondered aloud, withdrawing his hand almost immediately.
I didn’t know much about ghosts; the topic wasn’t a particular interest of mine, but I did know that they were rumored to cause cold spots. So why was it that my temperature was completely normal…? I couldn’t imagine.
“No, it’s fine,” I replied awkwardly, clasping a hand over my elbow, my voice soft and hoarse, as if I had a cold. I think it had something to do with the seldom use of my vocal chords.
He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully before shrugging it off. “Alright, well dinner’s about ready, so…” he trailed off, looking unsure about what came next.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” I assured him, nodding, eager to get rid of him, although inwardly I was considering all the things I’d rather do than sit awkwardly at the dinner table with a family I didn’t even know.
Satisfied with my answer, he turned and left, leaving me to face the so far nameless ghost, who was once again sprawled across my bed, limbs splayed, eyes closed in obvious, unabashed contentment.
“Why am I the only one who can see you?” I hissed, narrowing my eyes as I slammed my bedroom door, checking first to see that I was in the clear to talk to someone that couldn’t possibly be there.
“You ask me these questions like I should know the answers!” he exclaimed, sitting up and folding his legs Indian-style. “I’m not the ghost expert or anything. I haven’t been dead that long.” He sighed heavily, like he was exasperated with me.
“You do have a name, right? Or is it just Danny Phantom?” I quipped, curious against my better judgment. If the guy planned on hanging around, I had to at least know what to call him.
“It’s Alex. And you are…?” he questioned promptly, grinning a smile chock-full of bright white teeth that almost glowed, nearly sparkled in the light my ceiling fan cast down. It was…stunning.
“Brooklyn.”
“Well, Brooklyn, looks like we’re roomies!” he proclaimed loudly, throwing his arms skyward like he was announcing some sort of slumber party – a never-ending slumber party. Joy.
I wasn’t sure if he was real.
I wasn’t sure if I was sane.
But I was sure that life was bound to get a bit more interesting –
If not a bit less…dismal.
“Ignoring me won’t make me go away,” the ghost sang with a distinctly condescending lilt, having taken a liking to popping up around my room and scaring the living daylights out of me. Now that I was teetering on the edge of paranoid and constantly prepared for his appearance, – no longer fun - he was lounging on my window seat, watching me with rapt attention as I unpacked, tucking little knickknacks into places they seemed to fit.
“You’re not real. You’re a figment of my imagination. I’m crazy,” I muttered, chanting the assurances more to myself than to him, whilst setting out the framed picture of me and Jeremy on my nightstand.
“Who’s that, your boyfriend?” the apparition inquired, causing a barely noticeable disturbance in the air when he moved - the slightest rustle really, as he reappeared on my bed.
“My brother,” I snarled, my irritation abrasive; more than evident. Not only was he cocky, arrogant, and beautiful - he was nosy.
“I am real,” the ghost insisted abruptly, his attention veering back off to the previously left behind subject. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed that he had suggested my brother was my boyfriend, or if he just had that short of an attention span. “And you’re not crazy.”
I was preparing my retort, which was guaranteed not to be polite, when I was interrupted by my bedroom door being pushed open, following one sharp rap of a perfunctory ‘knock.’ Parents think that as long as they knock, you aren’t permitted to tell them off about invading your privacy abruptly. Waiting to hear a response after the knock: what a preposterous idea!
“How do you like the room?” my dad inquired, appearing not to be surprised in the least by the ghostly presence standing right in front of me. With a jolt, I realized that he wasn’t looking at the phantom teen; but rather looking through him to me.
“It’s – uh, great, Dad,” I mumbled, expelling a heavy sigh of air, unable to muster any scrap of enthusiasm for my expectantly waiting father, who had taken immediately to masking his grief with fake cheer following the death of his son. It was almost worse than Mom’s depression. Almost. At least he actually made an effort to seem human.
“I’m glad you like it,” he responded with more than enough zeal and alacrity to blanket the both of us, reaching through my spectral visitor to pat me on the shoulder. “Is it chilly in here?” he pondered aloud, withdrawing his hand almost immediately.
I didn’t know much about ghosts; the topic wasn’t a particular interest of mine, but I did know that they were rumored to cause cold spots. So why was it that my temperature was completely normal…? I couldn’t imagine.
“No, it’s fine,” I replied awkwardly, clasping a hand over my elbow, my voice soft and hoarse, as if I had a cold. I think it had something to do with the seldom use of my vocal chords.
He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully before shrugging it off. “Alright, well dinner’s about ready, so…” he trailed off, looking unsure about what came next.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” I assured him, nodding, eager to get rid of him, although inwardly I was considering all the things I’d rather do than sit awkwardly at the dinner table with a family I didn’t even know.
Satisfied with my answer, he turned and left, leaving me to face the so far nameless ghost, who was once again sprawled across my bed, limbs splayed, eyes closed in obvious, unabashed contentment.
“Why am I the only one who can see you?” I hissed, narrowing my eyes as I slammed my bedroom door, checking first to see that I was in the clear to talk to someone that couldn’t possibly be there.
“You ask me these questions like I should know the answers!” he exclaimed, sitting up and folding his legs Indian-style. “I’m not the ghost expert or anything. I haven’t been dead that long.” He sighed heavily, like he was exasperated with me.
“You do have a name, right? Or is it just Danny Phantom?” I quipped, curious against my better judgment. If the guy planned on hanging around, I had to at least know what to call him.
“It’s Alex. And you are…?” he questioned promptly, grinning a smile chock-full of bright white teeth that almost glowed, nearly sparkled in the light my ceiling fan cast down. It was…stunning.
“Brooklyn.”
“Well, Brooklyn, looks like we’re roomies!” he proclaimed loudly, throwing his arms skyward like he was announcing some sort of slumber party – a never-ending slumber party. Joy.
I wasn’t sure if he was real.
I wasn’t sure if I was sane.
But I was sure that life was bound to get a bit more interesting –
If not a bit less…dismal.
