Re-uploading because of typos.
I realized I don't write a lot about Angel. But I find there's a lot of A/C fluff out there, which while being very sweet can get a bit old. This is something beyond fluff.
Sometimes I watch them. It's strange, being dead. It isn't like they tell you. There's no Heaven, or Hell, at least not as far as I can tell. But there's no darkness either. I'm not non-existent, but I exist only to myself. Nobody sees me, but I can see everything. I can go anywhere, be anywhere, or nowhere just by thinking it. Sometimes, if I feel emotionally exhausted (I don't get physically tired anymore), I fall into a state of non-being.
I can also slip into dreams, and often, on earth's nights, I feel myself pulled into nighttime imaginations. I've been lulled countless times into the dreams of my love, his misty unconsciousness controlling me. I love these dreams, the time we get to spend together. They're the only time when he can see me. His fantasy subconscious dresses me in elaborate wedding dresses, splattered with bright paint; brings me on trips to cities I've never been before and kisses me at the top of the London Eye. When he wakes, I slip back into nothing, or wherever I wish to go.
I'm not a ghost; I can't move pencils, or slam doors, or whisper things into the ears of the living. I don't need a solid floor to move across a room. I can see my own body, thin and pale, the makes of hospital needles tracing my arms like a junkie's track marks.
I watch her too, my Mimi chica. I find my place in the crowd at her shows, to watch her dance, delighting in the men who weaken at the sight of her. I cry for her when, finally clean, she shoots up again when Roger leaves her alone. Though she doesn't notice, I hold her when illness sweeps her. Not yet, I say. I don't need you yet. Sometimes I wonder if she were to follow me here, whether we would meet. I doubt it. I haven't met others who have passed on, so why her? We'd simply be two creations of air, never more than thoughts, than memories; not meeting.
It hurts to watch them, and I'm hungry for it at the same time. They can't hear me, so I yell and scream, begging them not to hurt too much. They don't see me, so I jump and kick and flail when they admit to themselves that they just want to stop. Sometimes they think of me, and I stay with them so closely, as if I were here and real again. Sometimes I know they know I'm there. And sometimes I'm elsewhere.