Disclaimer: None of the 13 Ghost Characters are mine..
Notes: Told in Dennis' POV
Detached
It's hard to explain to anyone my life. Life in the past tense, that is. But I figure I might as try to explain, it's not like I have anywhere to be, or things to be doing..
I almost laughed at that last comment, I mean don't you ever just feel that sometimes things are so unfunny they're insanely funny. I'm not, well, wasn't insane, although by all rights I probably should have been
I mean, how can you explain what happened? I didn't ask to be some psychic with the fucked-up life I had, but that was it - I was Dennis, the ghostcatcher.
All these films – ghosterbusters – they make it sound so easy, like a ghost is just this thing that can't hurt you but annoys people. That isn't the truth.
Okay maybe in someways it is; I mean, a ghost is just a spirit. If the person was nice, never did nothing to harm anyone the chances are the ghost isn't going to bother you much. Same with most ghosts, but as with people there are the dangerous ones, the mad ones who fixate on killing, you, or anyone, you know you're in trouble. Ghosts won't stop like humans do. You can't reason with them and you can't shoot them.
Sure, there are spells, there are containment cubes, but all it takes is someone with as twisted a mind as Cyrus and you're in a shitload of trouble.
Being dead I have a lot of time to reflect these things, and decided that it was probably better that I died when I did, because I honestly couldn't see a future for lanky, out-of-place Dennis Rafkin. I mean, not even being able to touch someone without receiving their pain and memories? How was I supposed to live like that?
And it's not like I ever had a break from this, it was always there. My Mom died in childbirth so my Dad was stuck with me. He wasn't a bad guy, he was very kind I guess, but how can you honestly try to understand a kid like I was? He sent me to a Psychlogist twice weekly after it became obvious that the fact I couldn't touch anyone wasn't some bizaare habit. I think, even when I was a screaming baby I disliked being held, apparantly for the scawny baby I was, I made a hell of a lot of sound.
I was tested for a lot of things, mainly autism, but also just about every other disorder they could think of. I spent a lot of time in those chillingly sterile white rooms while they asked questions, and a lot of time just waiting.
No one really knew what to do with me, but by the time I could make any sense of what I saw when I was touched I had already been living in four separate Psycho wards.
I hated my Dad for sending me there but looking back I think that was probably the right thing to do. I got my own room, I was allowed the freedom of the grounds (with suppervision) as I had never shown any aggressive signs, and my strange habits were accepted like the other patients – I remember this one guy who's room was opposite mine and he spent the whole time in silence. People spoke to him but he didn't respond, but once, as my hand accidently brushed his, I understood.
He had just given up after his wife had died, I felt his pain, I felt his grief, I even felt his passion for his wife and his resignation to not caring anymore. He had tried to kill himself but he had been caught in the semi-blissful moments he had when he was nearly dead, the blood pouring from the jagged slits in his wrists in a (to him) beautiful pattern.
The next time I saw the man I glanced at his wrists, just jutting out from his white sleeves and I saw the scars on his boney, pale wrists. That was when I realised I was Pyschic.
Not to mention Cursed.