Edith heard the whole quarrel regarding Chanel/Kelly (I use quarrel loosely as it was all me) and simply said if I can’t go a little mad and let off some steam when I’m dead when can I? She had a marvellous talent of understanding moments of madness better than sanity. She strikes me as the sort of woman that eccentric old age suited better than the limitations of youth; always having to think of your future and how people perceived you. Instead, she could have been the girl with the weird dress sense and sharp wit that didn’t always win friends and influence people but lead a full life. I often wonder what her unfinished business must be; she travelled the world, never settled for one man and even had a few sneaky tattoos hidden under the layers of lilac linen and plaid polyester she had now matured into, how can she regret anything in her life?
It seems Edith had settled into stereo typical old age as it was easier rather than it suiting her personality. She still smoked like a chimney, drank like a sailor and cheated at bingo; or at least she did when she was alive. All the other ancient women would scowl at her, but she just didn’t care with her dirty cackle, extensive vocabulary of vulgarities and lust for life. When we first met she was swaying home from the pub with a walking-frame, steaming drunk. I offered to help her in the door but instead she passed the walking frame to me. Turns out she didn’t even need one, just used it to aid her nocturnal meander home from the Rose and Crown down the road; street pastors should give those out to drunken girls instead of flip flops at 3am on a Saturday morning.
Back at mine and Nick humble abode I had started my quest for moving on by reading Pride and Prejudice; something I’d always meant to do, but I was a ninja of procrastination and never got round to it. I was knee deep in eloquent language and Edwardian petticoats, but Kelly/Chanel kept springing into my mind; I can’t believe she was a crook! Every time I imagined her she got more desperate and skeletal; I bet she went home to a beating from ‘Gav’. My heart absolutely bled for her… Until I imagined her stuck to Nicks face, then the sympathy dispersed and fled from me.
If she had been a normal girl I would have never scared her out of the house like that (well I might have), but she was a thief, so I was morally correct for doing so. Or I’ll just keep telling myself that. There were rumours that the keepers sometimes snapped out of their deathly practices and acted to maintain the balance between the living and the dead; representing a higher power as they were never coming back from their oblivion they could act impartially. If a ghost drastically stepped out of line, by revealing itself to too many people or messing with the natural order of things; like possession and other such eerie hobbies, the keepers would neutralise the spook in question, or so I’ve heard. But the hearing was enough to have me walking on eggshells after going all out scaring Kelly. Just me being paranoid… again.
Nick left for his business trip four days ago, and I am thoroughly enjoying my heart break holiday. I’m trying to do some detective work and remember what my goals were in life. I’ve even gone back into the loft briefly, but it feels desolate and unfriendly after my fortnight of emotional torture. I have to find out what my unfinished business was; I am appallingly tired of all this drama, all this back and forth between loving nick from the bottom of my heart and hating him from the pit of my stomach.
Being curled up with a book reminds me of lazy Sunday afternoons when I was alive, I even have a cup of tea and a blanket on my knees (I know I don’t need to blanket, but it’s more for visual effect). The house is horribly quiet though, Hamish is staying with Nick mum while he is away; is it sad that I miss him? I mean, I’m dead, and I can’t even remember what my parents looked like, but I miss my cat. He is always my distraction from the boredom; he breaks up the silence with his impulsive purrs and grumbles, without him the stillness is actually deafening. Total quiet gives you that swansong in your ears, a fuzzy ringing noise which is probably your brain ticking over and drinking oxygen. I tried not to let it bother me, but I started reading aloud after a few minutes just to let my ears do some of the work.
Another noise had added to the din of nothing though… it was coming from upstairs, it sounded like the shower. I counted the days to assure myself that Nick had only been gone for four, and I know I’m the only ghost here; I don’t know why I was feeling a little scared as I’m the monster under the bed in this house. That and nothing can hurt me as I’m already dead. I kicked the blanket off my legs in a burst of tangled wool, chucked the book onto the sofa and went upstairs to explore the mystery noise. Nick might have come back during the night when I was up in the attic or the plumbing could be broken, or I could be totally making this up in my mind. Completely normal investigation as there is no reason for me to be freaked out at all. I repeated that all the way up the stairs.
When I reached the top of the stairs I hastily turned the corner towards the bathroom and saw nick waltzing out of the shower, nude, messing with his hair; he still isn’t used to having short locks. Everything normal, false alarm Thank god for that. He must have come back during the night, enormous relief. I turned to go and get the blanket and book back before he noticed but heard a horse shout coming from behind me “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” my stomach dropped through the floor boards, and I slowly turned around to see Nick terrified, holding a silver photo frame he’d grabbed from the side board, to cover his modesty. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?” he couldn’t be talking to me, I’m not here; with a baffled expression I looked around if anyone else was lurking in the room. There was no one.
My voice was barely noticeable “Are you talking to me?!” Nick clutched the photo frame even tighter than before, his knuckles pale like marble “of course I’m talking to you! Who else would I be talking to!?” Oh bloody hell, he can see me! A strange, spontaneous little croak tumbled out of my mouth, and I had no idea what to do. I had fantasised of this moment for so long, and now it was here I tasted anxiety rather that ecstasy; I couldn’t just bathe in the moment I had to justify and evidence exactly why it was happening. If it weren’t impossible for me to dream, I would have insisted this was a nightmare. My muted bewilderment seemed to scare Nick even more than anticipated “Are you here to burgle me? Just take what you want. Anything. Just take it” he thinks I’m here to rob him? That’s irony for you.
I took a feeble step closer to him, and he jumped back against the wall scared of what I might do. Keep your body language relaxed, just keep calm, he can’t hurt you, and you can’t hurt him… I think. The closer I got the wilder his eyes got; he looked as though he was going to detonate when I got close enough to prod him sharply in the collar bone. After the jab, I leapt back waiting for his acknowledgement of pain, but none came. Now I was panicking full steam ahead, man overboard, all hands on deck “Oh shit! This can’t be happening” his neck arched forward in oddity “what can’t be happening? You look a bit uneasy for someone who is supposed to be robbing me?” and dear lord I was anxious, we’ve either defied the laws of nature, I’m magically alive again or… he’s dead.
Deathcon 5.
He can’t be dead, this is just fucking cruel! When I said I wanted him, I didn’t mean like this; I didn’t mean I wanted him dead, like me. Complete karma bitch slap. I tried to think of another explanation, and when that failed just finding some words to justify what was happening would have been great, but all that came out was “oh shit”, which didn’t help the situation at all. I looked him up and down, damn it why do ghosts look the same as normal people! “Are… Are you… Dead?” this made his eyes widen and search my hands for weapons “DEAD?! Are you here to kill me?!” why on earth would I be there to kill him for goodness sake; It’s not like he’s a mafia boss or casually into gang culture, an assassin wouldn’t exactly come to complete a job in slippers would they?
Okay Jasmine, think of your feet, you need to know he’s dead for sure. A lamp on the side caught my eye, it was excruciatingly ugly, and his mother had bought it for his birthday; looked like an illuminated glass condom. “Pick up that lamp” I told him, please, please, please don’t let him be dead. “Why?” I forgot how stubborn he was “just pick up the lamp” don’t be difficult “I don’t want to pick up the lamp” FOR GOD SAKE. I took a confident, threatening step back towards him “I’M GOING TO HURT YOU. PICK UP THE LAMP TO DEFEND YOURSELF. NOW.” A dormant self-defence reflex must have kicked in because he lunged to grab the lamp… but his hand went straight through it. I shook my head “I knew you hated that lamp” and then the realisation of what this meant hit me like a cartoon piano falling from heaven.
My head was still shaking, in complete denial of what I just saw “oh no no no no, try again” he did, and it still didn’t work, he tried another five times, it still didn’t work. Nick seriously started to freak out now to, bouncing on the balls of his feet and swearing before slamming back against the wall and nearly dropping the silver plated loin cloth he was sporting “What the fuck have you done to me?” he shouted “you’ve drugged me! You put LSD in my shower gel! OH GOD I’m going to die”, do I calm him down, do I leave? There’s no protocol for this, and he was getting a bit catatonic “I NEVER EVEN GOT TO SEE THE PYRAMIDS!”
This was really awful. Really, really awful. Apocalyptic awful. He’s dead. I was dizzy, I felt sick, and it can’t be real. He was going berserk, and I was just soundless and numb, how the hell did this happen? “I haven’t drugged you,” the docility and despair in my voice seemed to calm him; if I weren’t dead I would have been having a panic attack. “Nick, you’re dead” I was just staring into space trying to figure out how this has happened. I casually passed him a cushion from the armchair in the corner; it would cover a far greater surface area and my mind never could maintain complete concentration this much of him was on display. Even in a situation as messed up as this. He seemed to sense I wasn’t a threat and stepped away from the wall a little “Who are you?” he’s not going to buy this “… I’m Jasmine… spooky Jasmine”
Yep look at that expression on his face. He thinks I’m insane. “Jasmine isn’t real,” he said shaking his head “she’s dead”. You’re telling me, I’m never going to get this through to him, and he thinks I’m some crazy burglar assassin which doesn’t help. Might as well go for broke and put it out there “smell me” I nonchalantly invited, to which he narrowed his eyes “are you some kind of pervert?” Nick certainly wasn’t making this easy “of course I’m not! Just smell me” he jostled the cushion about checking it covered what it needed to and leant forward taking a swift whiff.
His face changed as you could see the scent pulling memories from his mind like a lucky dip, trying to follow with the right words and failing as his mind was overloaded with the implications. “If you’re really… her, tell me something only we would know” you have to pick something that isn’t too creepy, don’t be creepy “the aspirin incident” those three words stunned him. “No one knows about that; not even my shrink” jackpot. “No one, except the person who caught the aspirin” he stood there with his mouth wide open for a couple minutes; it felt like about ten years though. Nick actually taking this remarkably well for someone who just found out they’re dead; I listened David Grey’s album on repeat for two weeks crying.
“Look,” I said breaking his mental exertion “put some clothes on and come downstairs when you’re ready, we’ll talk”. Act calm and he will think you have this under control. I never thought I’d be asking him to put clothes on…
Or actually asking him anything in general come to think of it. This is seriously too much, my body felt even more numb than usual, and I had trouble getting my legs to walk down the stairs, it was as if wooden rigidity had dispersed throughout me; delayed rigor mortis.
I can’t believe it… Nick dead. This changes everything.
