Reasons to Live
7
“So what, is that like dying?” I put in some extra effort, so that he may understand my skepticism.
“Like I would know,” he shoots back. “All I know is that if you disappear all angry like that, then you disappear. And it’s not in a good way.”
“How would you know?”
“My family’s been in this business for years,” he says, with a totally straight face. That’s okay, because I am ashamed for both of us.
“Are you serious? What are you, a character from a YA novel?”
“A what?”
It stops me for a second, but I plow on. “Young adult. But really? What are you, Ghostbusters?”
“I have the Sight, which enables me to see ghosts.” He must believe my face looks disbelieving (imagine that), because he adds, “It’s a genetic trait.”
Like that makes it any less ridiculous.
“So let me guess,” I say, “You and your family have this role in the universe where you wander the world in search of wayward ghosties and send them to the other side, without making them freak out and end up in Hell or something?”
Okay, allow me to say that after that, I feel very proud of myself; I always dreamed of giving a rant like that, but I was always too tongue-tied.
“No.” His tone is flat, and I am instantly irritated that he’s making an attempt to burst my bubble. “I find lost spirits, and I guide them to judgment. Though,” he admits, “if the spirit is more inclined to Hell more than Heaven, they often ‘freak out’ before they can be helped.”
“So are you saying I’m going to Hell, then?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t disappear completely, so I think there’s still hope for you. Though committing suicide over your boy won’t help your case, I’m afraid.”
This time, I control the rage; I don’t want to disappear again.
“I didn’t commit suicide,” I growl, pretty sure that my teeth are passing through each other.
He studies me. Since I expected him to retort, I stare back before starting to fidget.
“And you say you didn’t come back because of any unrequited love?”
“No.” I float back into my tree. All that we hear is the whistling of leaves cozying up to each other, whispering flatteries to their kin beneath the sky.
“May I ask what you did come back for?”
“Will you believe me?” He flinches at my gaze, and I get the feeling that he feels some sort of guilt. Good for him.
He inhales visibly, like he’s bracing himself. “I will do my best to believe you,” he says, with the air of an oath sworn. Still, it takes some bracing of my own to reply.
“Fine. I was murdered.” He looks away for a second, schooling his expression. I wait for him to meet my eyes again, and say, “Sandra disabled the brakes on my car when she decided that I was a threat to her relationship with Pine, so I went cruising off the hill on McCall and D.”
“And you know that she disabled the brakes on your car?” Forced objectivity is obvious in his tone.
“I do,” I tell him firmly. “I heard her and her brother talking about it in the parking lot after I died.”
“So she had an accomplice?”
“Yes, but from what he said, he thought it was a prank. He told her he was upset that I got killed for it.” My mouth pulls sideways with bitterness. “She didn’t sound too miffed, though.”
“Okay.” A long, deep breath seems to stabilize him as he thinks over what I told him. “So what do you need done? What can I help with?” At my expression, he elaborates, “There’s something keeping you here, right? What is it?”
“I don’t know.” The image of Sandra and Pine rose to mind. “I want her away from him. If she’s killing people like me… I was never really a threat to her, so there shouldn’t be any reason to take me out of the equation, yet she did.”
“But she only killed you, didn’t she?” His expression is difficult to read. “She’s not exactly going all serial killer, is she?”
“She still killed somebody, didn’t she?” I shoot back. “Or am I so insignificant that my death doesn’t count as anything?”
“That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry,” he breathes quickly, but it is lost in the rush of an old Ford pickup zipping down the street, and stopping in the middle.
“Dammit, Mitch, what are you doing out here?”
“Like I would know,” he shoots back. “All I know is that if you disappear all angry like that, then you disappear. And it’s not in a good way.”
“How would you know?”
“My family’s been in this business for years,” he says, with a totally straight face. That’s okay, because I am ashamed for both of us.
“Are you serious? What are you, a character from a YA novel?”
“A what?”
It stops me for a second, but I plow on. “Young adult. But really? What are you, Ghostbusters?”
“I have the Sight, which enables me to see ghosts.” He must believe my face looks disbelieving (imagine that), because he adds, “It’s a genetic trait.”
Like that makes it any less ridiculous.
“So let me guess,” I say, “You and your family have this role in the universe where you wander the world in search of wayward ghosties and send them to the other side, without making them freak out and end up in Hell or something?”
Okay, allow me to say that after that, I feel very proud of myself; I always dreamed of giving a rant like that, but I was always too tongue-tied.
“No.” His tone is flat, and I am instantly irritated that he’s making an attempt to burst my bubble. “I find lost spirits, and I guide them to judgment. Though,” he admits, “if the spirit is more inclined to Hell more than Heaven, they often ‘freak out’ before they can be helped.”
“So are you saying I’m going to Hell, then?”
“I don’t know. You didn’t disappear completely, so I think there’s still hope for you. Though committing suicide over your boy won’t help your case, I’m afraid.”
This time, I control the rage; I don’t want to disappear again.
“I didn’t commit suicide,” I growl, pretty sure that my teeth are passing through each other.
He studies me. Since I expected him to retort, I stare back before starting to fidget.
“And you say you didn’t come back because of any unrequited love?”
“No.” I float back into my tree. All that we hear is the whistling of leaves cozying up to each other, whispering flatteries to their kin beneath the sky.
“May I ask what you did come back for?”
“Will you believe me?” He flinches at my gaze, and I get the feeling that he feels some sort of guilt. Good for him.
He inhales visibly, like he’s bracing himself. “I will do my best to believe you,” he says, with the air of an oath sworn. Still, it takes some bracing of my own to reply.
“Fine. I was murdered.” He looks away for a second, schooling his expression. I wait for him to meet my eyes again, and say, “Sandra disabled the brakes on my car when she decided that I was a threat to her relationship with Pine, so I went cruising off the hill on McCall and D.”
“And you know that she disabled the brakes on your car?” Forced objectivity is obvious in his tone.
“I do,” I tell him firmly. “I heard her and her brother talking about it in the parking lot after I died.”
“So she had an accomplice?”
“Yes, but from what he said, he thought it was a prank. He told her he was upset that I got killed for it.” My mouth pulls sideways with bitterness. “She didn’t sound too miffed, though.”
“Okay.” A long, deep breath seems to stabilize him as he thinks over what I told him. “So what do you need done? What can I help with?” At my expression, he elaborates, “There’s something keeping you here, right? What is it?”
“I don’t know.” The image of Sandra and Pine rose to mind. “I want her away from him. If she’s killing people like me… I was never really a threat to her, so there shouldn’t be any reason to take me out of the equation, yet she did.”
“But she only killed you, didn’t she?” His expression is difficult to read. “She’s not exactly going all serial killer, is she?”
“She still killed somebody, didn’t she?” I shoot back. “Or am I so insignificant that my death doesn’t count as anything?”
“That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry,” he breathes quickly, but it is lost in the rush of an old Ford pickup zipping down the street, and stopping in the middle.
“Dammit, Mitch, what are you doing out here?”
♠ ♠ ♠
Dopey has a name now... >.>