Haunted, Jay Mirano [you can read anyone txt] 📗

large crowd has gathered against some kind of object on the ground. As I get closer I realize it's me, lying broken and crumpled against the wet, shining road.
   A paramedic has his fingers pressed against my neck, which is bent at an unnatural angle. I feel a wave of nausea rush over me, like a hard punch to the gut. Am I really dead? How can I be dead? Surely they can bring me back!
   I force myself to look away as the grim-faced paramedic lifts my limp body onto a stretcher, pushing me towards the ambulance. The shocked faces of the crowd stare back at me; some have pale hands pressed against open mouths, others have fresh tears glistening on their cheeks.
   I can hear shrieking, and with a jolt I realize it's Cassie. She's straining against the mass of people, her eyes wild with fear and panic, screaming my name.
   "Let me through that's Aly, that's my sister!" Her screams sound almost inhuman, like a dying animal. I've never seen her look so afraid. "Oh god, please don't let that be Aly."
   I watch as she falls to the ground, knees giving way beneath her. Her silk dress is soaked with rain and mud, clinging to the shape of her legs. She swats Kyle away as he tries to lift her, her shoulders shuddering with the force of her sobs. She's still screaming for me as the ambulance pulls away, tyres spraying up sparkling droplets of rain in its wake.
   I try to go to her, but my body feels strange. It feels... Light. Like I'm floating in a pool, gravity dulled and useless. I struggle against the air, waving my arms like a fish out of water. As the crowd disperses, all that's left is Cassie's trembling form curled on the ground, and broken shards of glass shimmering on the road like stars.

 

 

Weightless

 

 

  By the time the sun comes up, I'm still trying to get used to my new, weightless self. I've figured out how to get to the ground at least, and from here it seems a little easier to move. It's almost midday by the time I'm able to move confidently, and the first place I go is home.
   It's strange to not actually walk, but glide. I don't want to call it 'floating', because that seems too ghost-like, and I don't want to admit that I'm a ghost. I don't want to say the world out loud. I'm still Aly, I'm still sixteen (although technically seventeen now... Do the dead age?), and I still feel like I'm meant to be at school right now, sitting in English with Cassie and oogling Mr Braxton everytime he turns to write something on the whiteboard.
   I find I move faster since I don't actually have to physically step on the ground. My feet graze just above it as I move, but they dip through it if I get too low. I feel like smoke, seeping into things and getting lost against solid objects. I make a conscious effort not to get too close to the ground.
   I don't know why, but a part of me was expecting to see at least a couple other ghosts on my walk―glide―home. If I'm in the afterlife now, shouldn't a ton of dead people be hanging around? It almost feels like I'm on the wrong side of the Apocalypse, like everyone is still living and I'm the only one who's dead.
   I still duck out of the way of cars as they come towards me on the road, even though nothing would happen if they hit me. Reflex, I guess. If only I'd had better reflexes last night. None of this wouldn't have happened. But I can't think about that now. What-ifs don't make anything easier, I learned that a long time ago.
   By the time I get home, the sun is just starting to dip beneath the horizon, casting a muted orange glow up into the pale-blue sky. For a moment it makes me think about Heaven, and I feel cheated that I'm not there. I'm not sure how I'm going to handle roaming the earth alone. Hopefully I can hook up with some more ghosts. I feel my stomach churn at the thought. My carefree attitude towards death is barely masking my true terror.
   The door to my house is ajar, yellow light spilling out onto the doorstep. I can hear voices coming from inside, and I slip through the opening, not wanting to touch the actual door. I'm probably just being paranoid, but that scene from Ghost keeps popping into my head, and I have no desire to see the insides of my door just now. I remember the first time Cassie and I had watched that movie together, and I feel a pang of sadness. I miss her already. How am I going to exist without her?
   I can see my Mom's shadow stretching out from the lounge. She's standing beside the fireplace, arms wrapped around her body and clinging to her shoulders. She turns at the sound of a male's voice, and I can see just how tired she looks. Her face is drawn tight across her features, like she's been crying all night. She looks ten years older than she did yesterday. More than anything I want to rush up and hug her, to tell her that I'm alright, but I know that I can't.
    But seriously, who the hell is this guy in my house comforting my Mom? I see him get up from the couch and put his hands over hers. His voice sounds so familiar, though. Mom didn't have a secret boyfriend, did she? Although, if I'm dead, I'm glad she has someone, I guess.
   I move more into the room, getting a closer look. With a start I realize the stranger isn't an exotic lover, or the pastor or even a kind-hearted neighbour: it's my Dad.
   I feel a surge of anger at the sight of him. I haven't seen him since the divorce, since he walked out on me and Mom and never looked back. Again I glimpse the sight of him hopping into the taxi, how much I had wanted him to look back at us, and how he never did. I want to run up to him and pound on his chest, to scream at him and tell him to get out of my house. How dare he show up now? He wasn't with me in life, so why should he be with me in death? And more to the point, why the hell is Mom letting him in here? Mom's the one he hurt the most when she caught him screwing her friend, Sandra. So what is he doing here?
   Mom turns to my Dad, face sallow and sunken, sharp cheekbones jutting out from beneath frail skin. To my surprise, she buries her face in his chest and gives in to the full force of her sobs. Neither of them say a word. They just stand there, locked in their mournful embrace.
   I can't stand to mutely witness their grief any longer, so I turn and go upstairs. My bedroom is exactly as I left it; even the messed-up bed is the same. I float there for a while, wishing I could crawl into bed, go to sleep and wake up as if this had never happened. But I can't even touch my bed. I feel so impotent.
   A textbook is lying open on the ground where I last threw it (in frustration, probably), and because it's the only thing around to do, I hover above it and read the pages. It's all about rearranging algebraic equations, and as mind-numbing as it is, it's enough to distract me from everything that's going on around me.
   I've read these same two pages almost eleven times before I notice the light go on above me. I jump out of my skin, annoyed and surprised at the same time that I can still get a fright when I'm already dead. I turn to see my Mom standing in the doorway, eyes blood-shot and puffy, her hands wringing at the hem of her sweater.
   She does a lap of my room, pausing every now and then to pick up an ornament, or run her fingers across a discarded item of clothing. She buries her face in my pyjama top and inhales deeply, a fresh rush of tears springing to her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She opens my wardrobe, standing between its doors for what seems like an age. Finally, after digging around at the very back, she finds my Snuggy Bunny and crawls into my bed with.
    I'd almost forgotten I still have that Snuggy Bunny. It was my favorite toy from the ages of three to nine, and I never went anywhere without it. Embarassing, maybe, but whatever. And seeing it again now makes me want it even more. I just want to touch something―anything!―and not have my hand go right through it.
   Watching my Mom curled in my bed clutching my Snuggy Bunny is almost too much too bear. She looks like a lost child, clinging to the toy for the slightest shred of comfort she can. My chest constricts, the urge to cry overwhelming, but I can't. Being here is too painful. It just reminds me of everything I've lost, and everything that I'll never have again. Before I leave, I plant one, whisper of a kiss on my Mom's cheek, and drift out the window.

Wide Awake

 

 

   Well, this is dull. No, seriously, who knew being dead would be so boring? So far I've 'snuck' into the cinema to watch movies in the dark, I've read books over peoples' shoulders in the library, I've even drifted to the top of the Space Needle and let myself fall again, just to see what it would feel like. And, after all that, it's only been a week. I've seen all the new releases―okay, maybe more than once―I creeped myself out with the library thing, and there's only so many times you can freefall from 600 feet without losing that adrenaline rush edge. So that's how I ended up here, sitting outside Jefferson High, waiting for the bell to ring.
   I know what you're thinking: you're dead and you're still going to go to school?! And I know