Disclaimer: I really don't own this. After years and years of this shit you would think they'd know that by now...
Author's Note: Hello, my lovers! Mayhaps I should be updating other stories instead of starting new ones, but I really liked this story and it's been floating around in my head for awhile so I thought I would post a preliminary chapter and see if everyone else thought it was as good as I did. So, please have a read and let me know your thoughts. And as always, enjoy...:)
"Stop acting like this. You're being crazy?" I shake my head as I continue to move towards the stairs, the only way out of the house from the top floor. The door will be my sanctuary, the clothes in my suitcase the costume of my escape, but I have to make it out of his grip and down the stairs to reach it. "I said to stop."
The hand around the back of my collar pulls tightly and I fall backwards, my body rushing into the arms of my attacker. I struggle, but he knows me too well and he knows the way my body struggles. "Get off of me or I'll," I sputter but he spins me around, pinning my much smaller body to the wall.
"Or you'll what? That little wand of yours is lying broken on the floor. You think you can hurt me?" I look into the eyes that are so similar to my own. The same dark green irises, the same dilating pupils. His mouth curls into a cruel smile, and I wonder if I twitch my lips if mine will do the same.
"I can still do magic without it." I'm bluffing and he knows it. He takes a moment to laugh at my accusation, releasing me slightly. I take my opportunity to push away, scrambling towards the stairs. He reaches out for me, and I rush forward. He grabs for my leg and I trip.
The floor comes rushing up at me and I feel my head hit the first stair with astounding force. The stars that rush over my vision blind me, blinking black and white as I feel my body tumbling. I hear a crack as my hand smashes against the marble, and I roll faster. When my momentum stops, I'm lying at the bottom of the stairs. My suitcase lies a meter in front of me, next to the door. If I stand and run, I can make it out of the house.
My body doesn't move. There's something wet dripping over my hair, into my eyes and lips. My father calls out to me from the top of the stairs but I can't move; I can't speak or breathe. I hear the footsteps, and I close my eyes, hoping that pretending to sleep will keep him away from me.
The footsteps stop and I can no longer open my eyes. And I realize, I'm dying.
I wake up, feeling lighter than I have in months. I gather myself off the ground and feel my forehead. It doesn't feel lacerated or marred in anyway, and I wonder if I imagined falling down the stairs or if it was a dream. I know for a fact that there was blood in my mouth, although at the moment it seems to be fine, no tale tell taste of rust. There's crying from somewhere near me, and I walk forward.
My father is on the stairs, looking blankly at a spot on the floor while tears openly fall from his eyes. "Dad?" I ask, not understanding. He ignores me. I walk over to him and place my hand on his shoulder, but it doesn't connect, like a barrier has been put between our flesh. I try again with the same result. When I look at my hands, there's nothing wrong. I still see the pale white flesh that I always have seen. Except, I realize, that my nails are now nude and they were definitely painted green before I fell.
An unsettling feeling begins in the pit of my stomach, and I kneel down in front of my father again. "Dad, please?" I beg, but he continues to ignore me, like I'm not even there. His eyes remain on the spot behind me and I know what I will find if I turn around. Things start to click into place. It wasn't all a dream.
There is a bloody handprint on the wall of the staircase, crimson streaking down the marble steps. My father's face has a deep scratch on the side I had lashed out at. I take a deep breath, realizing I haven't been breathing this whole time and I close my eyes, slowly turning around.
A crumpled body lies on the ground; it's mine, I realize, or at least it was. The strawberry blonde hair is now a darker shade of red, blood pooling in the tresses as they spread across the floor. My left arm is bent in a strange way, and I stretch out my arm now, still intact and unharmed. The blood on my face is drying, peeling away but there are tear tracks through the red, and I touch my face, but it's dry as well.
I finally understand that I'm dead. The body is me.
My knees buckle beneath me as I sink to the ground next to my dead body. My mind drifts, trying to understand what is going on, why I'm still here when clearly the person on the ground so close in front of me is no longer alive. My eyes try to meet my father's but he looks right through me. We sit in silence for what feels like hours, but it could only be minutes.
How do you measure time when you're dead?
My hands rest on my jean clad knees; the tight denim is clean though the knees of the body in front of me are bloody and torn. My short brown boots are laced and zipped and unscuffed as well. The short-sleeved red t-shirt I'm wearing seems to be the same as before, not sticky or stained like the body in front of me. My hair feels clean, my face feels unscathed, but I know that I'm dead.
There's movement across from me as my father stands up and walks towards the kitchen. I stand, almost without realizing it, and make my way after him. No sound comes from my feet, and I know that even if I jumped up and down, if I threw plates and cups and smashed into things, I would remain silent. I wonder if I'll ever speak to someone again, or if it will just be me and my voice unanswered forever.
What does it mean to be a ghost?
My father reaches for the phone, placing his hand up to touch the bloody scratch on his cheek as he catches sight of his reflection in the window above the sink. I stand behind him, hoping to see my own reflection but there is nothing there. As he dials the numbers on the telephone, I make my way out of the kitchen. I cross away from the body on the floor, the large puddle of blood that is slicking the marble floor, and I walk through the living room into the bathroom.
My hands won't touch the handle, so I walk forward, hoping that something will happen and that I'll be able to enter the room even when my hands won't work. I hit the door with a thud, feeling it reverberate through my body. I try again, more deliberate this time, and I feel the wood give some, and then I'm sinking through like it's made of soft sand. When I open my eyes, I'm standing in the bathroom. I take a deep, unneeded breath, and turn towards the mirror, hoping to see myself.
Instead, there is nothing there.
No reflection.
No me.