What did I do with my free day?
Did I relax, watching television? No. Did I catch up on my homework assignment? No.
I went through all my grandma's stuff. It was all nonsense, between things she picked up that seemed like trash and art books and paintings or magazines of home decorations. I didn't know what to make evolve. It wasn't like she kept a letter explaining the whole thing. No contact for her. Should have knew better.
Jacks always said that there is a feeling when you die, like you are getting pulled somewhere, and most ghosts tend to lean into this. Grandma has been years into this business. She knew better than to stick around. Most ghosts I apparently did not stop seeing seemed half crazed.
Once in a while I saw them in the street, and they flickered with ominous energy. They always mumble to themselves, and their demeanor seems sick and drained of power.
I picked up a sketchbook of hers. This one is worn out at the edges as if used a lot, and scraps of paper were ripped at the edges as if someone had ripped off some of the papers. Violently.
I narrow my eyes at the drawings, if they could be called that, because the lines seem so angry that it seems like she tried to tear off the paper as if possessed. as if she ran over certain lines of her art over and over again trying to get them out of her head.
It's only showing portraits or sketches of faces, and it's not just one; it's a lot of them, all different, young and old, sick and healthy. I pause when I see one particular face that seems familiar.
Mindy Patrice died ten years ago, in the third grade, from lymphoma. I used to go to her house, and she had a sickening obsession with anything to do with girly pop. I used to bring my Barbies to play with her and drink apple juice, which Mom was opposed to because of sugar and fun.
I dropped the notebook with sickening food with when I realized what it was.
This notebook contains every face there is of someone who died. A shiver runs down my spine as if a ghost went through me, realizing how long she has had to keep up with the world of the dead.
She must have started up with the art to get the images of the ghost and anything involved with them out of her head. This explains the other sketchbook, the one that was full of gibberish, saying stuff constantly about 'getting the darkness out of her head.'
I must have fallen asleep during reading because I found Jacks hovering above my head, touching my forehead, and nearly bumped my own head against his in a rush.
He had that unreadable expression again on his face, the one he always got when he looked at me. Now like… he was worried. I discarded the thought because he didn't get to feel that way. He opened his mouth to say something that I was not interested in hearing. I shot back, "What do you want?"
Jacks followed me around literally everywhere. So it was not really a surprise to see him in my room. Shouldn't I start putting up boundaries? Shouldn't I say something?
Part of me wanted to scream at him that he didn't get to be in my room again, but I couldn't. That small annoying little voice in my head said, give him the benefit of the doubt.
He sat on the edge of my bed, keeping a respectful distance. Now the air of heaviness clung to him. "Why do you always do that?"
"What?" I asked in a half of annoyance. He didn't get to barge into my room and complain about my attitude.
Jack rolled his eyes at me. "I just wanted to check up on you. I felt that you needed me."
Felt. I hated that he always said that these days and something about feeling the tug. I never listened.
It didn't matter even if I told him not to come. It it wouldn't push him away. He always follows me in no matter what, prying every free moment of my very private life. It didn't matter that I said that I couldn't help him. He followed me for about three days after everything. Every time I thought or said that I was done, he did it again.
Fuck him. Mumble to myself, "Ghostly annoying stalker."
He just grins. Despite me being annoyed at his presence, I hide my growing smile too. I huffed, "Mom, Dad came back home." I tugged at the blanket, needing some barricade between me and Jacks. "They were pissed off at what happened with Search."
He cocked his eyebrows, "at you nearly dying?"
"Shouldn't have been there. I should not have ever gone that deep into the woods. This is my fault. Mr. Warner is dead because of me."
Before setting off into that spiraling rabbit hole, Jack cups my cheek in his large palm and directs his face, inching his body towards his chest and enveloping me in, "You saved my best friend. There was nothing that could have been done. Do you understand me?"
I muffled some words, but he clamps his hands harder around my body, not letting go even the slightest bit. I can hear his heart beating, but I'm sure I'm delusional because he isn't even alive to have a beating heart, but nonetheless, I can hear it thrumming faster and faster.
Letting his energy pour into mine, mixing into each other to make a blend of golden perfection I let myself completely go into the sensation.
I tried to let go of the embrace, but he tightened his grip. "Don't go." I looked up at him in question.
"Just let me take care of you for tonight." I want to tell him to go away, but I actually am tired. Telling him to go away just costs me more energy than I have right now. Just one power nap and I'll tell him to go away.
His body shifts me into the fetal position, chest to my back, warm and steady somehow, but right now I'm not questioning it. I'm not questioning how someone who's supposed to be very much not physical feels like warmth, safety, and everything I shouldn't need or want. The rustling of sheets, noting he covered both of us in the blanket.
A part of me wants to feel uncomfortable by this, but how could I when his body envelops me like that?