A/N: I realize this story is ridiculous. That's alright though. I can deal with that.
The ring of the telephone jarred Lydia from her dreamless sleep. She didn't know what it was at first, fear prickling her skin. Once the loud ring of the phone sounded again she breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a moment. She twisted herself up from laying on the bed, picking up the alarm clock. The red glowing numbers read 4:27 AM. Running to the phone on the table near the television, she picked it up, breathing a heavy "Hello?" into the receiver.
"Lydia? It's Delia," the voice on the other line said. Her voice sounded far away and whispered. People were speaking in the background, discussing something that Lydia couldn't quite pick up.
"What is it?" Lydia said.
"Well, I – I'm not going to stretch it out, so I'm just going to tell you," said Delia. She paused for a moment, inhaling a hitched breath.
"Just tell me. What's wrong?" Lydia said.
"Charles died. He had a heart attack tonight while we were sleeping. The doctor said he probably didn't even feel it, so, that's good," Delia said. She was crying, but in the only way Delia knew how. It was all in the inflection, Lydia understood.
"What do you want me to do?" Lydia said.
"I don't – I don't want you to do anything. If you have time you can come back home and help me make arrangements, but you don't have to if you don't want to," Delia said.
"I'll leave tomorrow morning. I mean, this morning. I'll be there as soon as I can," Lydia said.
"Okay, I will see you at the house, then," Delia said.
The phone rested back in its cradle. Everything was dark around her. She realized that she forgot to turn a light on when she ran to get the telephone. Her feet felt cold and numb, the floorboards creaked under her shifting weight. She climbed back into bed, pushing her legs underneath the blankets. Grasping the remote control, she felt around for the button to turn on the television.
A groan escaped her mouth and she realized that she couldn't breathe. Sitting straight up, Lydia tried to take in air. Her mouth opened and closed, making almost hysterical gasping noises. Tears trailed down her face, sliding into the crevices of her lips and she tasted salt. She exhaled finally, realizing she was holding her breath on her own accord. Her throat clenched and it hurt so much to swallow dry gulps of air. Fingernails pierced the flesh of her palms and she relaxed her hands slowly.
Another pathetic watery groan left her and she wiped her face with the sleeve of her nightshirt.
"Stop," she whispered. "Stop it. I have to – I have to go get ready."
Feeling blindly by her side, she found the lamp sitting on the nightstand and turned it on. A pale glow illuminated the small bedroom but she could see none of it because of the tears in her eyes. Cloudy images of familiar objects met her vision and she wiped furiously at her eyes with the shirt's sleeve.
The window in the bedroom showed nothing but darkness, still too early for the sun to emerge. Her legs felt shaky and weak when she tried to stand up again. The air was so cold, so numbing. She wanted to curl up into her bed again but went to the bathroom instead. She turned the lights on, fluorescents blinding her. The shower knobs turned under her hands and water spouted from the showerhead, steam rising quickly from the cold. She managed to do this before she collapsed to the floor, legs sprawled out, head lolling to the side.
She didn't care. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Everything seemed so pointless now. Her family was dead. She was the last. The last one and the memories. Oh, the memories. She was much too young to remember the details of her time with her mother, much too young to understand the sickness. She was all that was left of that time with her mother and father and it made her feel so completely alone. There was no one in the world who could share in these memories now. In those moments of happiness and sadness and just being.
Sniffing loudly, she tried to right herself up from the tiled floor of the bathroom but failed miserably. She looked at her outstretched hand, laying motionless on the bathroom rug. She tapped her finger once, to see if it could even move. It did, of course.
The sudden urge to see Adam and Barbara popped into her head. She wanted to talk to them, to hug them and to see that maybe her father was somewhere out in the world, like them. But she was laying on the bathroom floor, hyperventilating instead. Her chest felt like it was on fire. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Muscles tensed and cramped. Pain sliced through her body and she didn't know how to stop it.
"Stop," she pleaded with herself. She took in a long deep breath, finally catching it and holding it. She let it out after a few seconds, allowing her muscles to relax as much as was possible.
More and more steam billowed out of the open shower. It covered the bathroom mirror and traveled out through the door, into her bedroom. She could see the red numbers on the clock from where she lay on the ground, showing her that only ten minutes had passed since the phone call. It felt like she had been laying there for hours.
A name that she had not thought about in years slid gently through the recesses of her mind and settled on her attention. She didn't know why it popped into her head, she just knew that it was there now. She listened to the shower for a few more minutes, contemplating the name. She decided to say it out loud. Her voice cracked against the strain, her throat clenching around the word. More tears gushed from her eyes, blurring her vision and burning her skin. Inhaling sharply, she said the name again. It was easier to say this time and so she made up her mind to say it again, for the last time.
Breathing in and out, she listened carefully for any new sounds or movements, but nothing came. For a reason she couldn't fathom it hurt and more pressure and pain pressed against her chest and throat. She was being stupid and childish. She needed to get up and take a shower so she could get ready to leave. She needed to do that.
Steam surrounded her, making it hard for her to breathe. She coughed miserably and came up to a sitting position.
"You know, that's a real waste of water."
Eyes wide, Lydia turned towards the voice. Steam rose high up in the doorframe leading to the bedroom, a shadow within the swirling mass barely visible to her bloodshot eyes. The shadow solidified and a man stood in the doorway, leaning an elbow against the frame, hand scratching the back of his head.
"But, hey, it's not my problem, is it, babe?" the man said.
Lydia stared at him. The hair, the eyes, the disgusting skin. Her memory of him and the reality standing before her had not changed in the slightest. She remembered being incredibly awkward and unsure around him back when she was a teenager, but now when she looked at him, she felt none of that.
"What I don't get is what the fuck am I doing here? Why am I standing in some poor as shit apartment in the middle of nowhere looking at a fucking crybaby?" he said. He straightened up from the doorframe, resting most of his weight on one leg instead. He talked with his hands, waving around wildly with each word and phrase. He pointed at her. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? Have we, you know, met before?" He waggled his eyebrows at her and smiled wolfishly, his front teeth jutting out against his top lip.
Realizing that she hadn't said anything yet, Lydia tried to make a sound but all that came out was another groan. Her chest rose and fell painfully and newfound tears swam in her eyes. The steam from the shower was hurting her head and she started to panic again.
"Woah, babe. Didn't think you'd take a joke so personal. I remember you, sure. Sure, you were that, uh, that black haired chick at that house with the model of the town, right? Am I right or what?" he said. His smile faltered when Lydia continued to hyperventilate. "Hey, now. What's wrong with you? Are you dying or something?"
Air seeped into her lungs and she accepted it gladly. Her fingers were held tightly into fists against the material of her nightshirt. She relaxed her hands and calmed down enough to laugh slowly at the man's last remark.
She coughed again and said in a ragged voice, "No, I'm not dying. I'm just laying around on the bathroom floor because it's fun."
The man eyed her closely, checking out each article of clothing or lack thereof. "Need any help, babe?" he asked.
Watching him, Lydia realized that she didn't really care taking a shower and that she wanted something, anything, to touch her. She put out her arm towards him. "Yes, help me."
His eyes widened at the response but quickly regained their usual deadness. He smiled at her and leaned in to take her hand. He pulled her up quickly with more strength than she expected and she fell against his chest. The red shirt he wore was slightly too small for his frame, material stretching against the clasped buttons that held the shirt together. She could feel the cold skin underneath and she splayed her hand out across his chest. His right arm wrapped around her shoulder and the left one snaked around her waist.
He glanced down at her and then looked away. "You know what you're doing, honey?"
Inhaling deeply, Lydia caught the scent of cigarettes and old clothes. She half expected to smell rotting flesh, but she didn't. Nothing about him smelled unpleasant. She pressed her face against his chest, the tears drying against the material of his shirt.
"I don't care," she said, almost breathing the words against his skin.
He shuddered and she wondered why and how that was even possible. Moving his arm from around her shoulder, he gripped either side of her arms and led her out of the bathroom, back into the cold bedroom. He set her down carefully on the mattress and sat on the edge of it, his hand resting on her exposed knee.
"What did you call me for?" he asked. His hand moved across her leg, making her skin tingle from the coldness of his fingers. He moved with hesitation, probably aware that his hand was going to be slapped away at any second.
"I don't know," she said, shifting her head away from the man and pressing her face firmly against a pillow. "Just keep touching me."
His hand stopped its travel up the back of her thigh. He stopped all movement and she could feel him staring at the back of her head. The hand lifted from her leg and she could feel the man readjust himself on the bed.
"What did you say? I think I misheard you," he said. He said it close to her ear, the nearness of him making her shudder.
Her back faced him, unable to look at him. Her face flushed and she could feel the heat travel through her body. Everything seemed so wrong. Her mind wouldn't let her go beyond what was physically present. Wouldn't let her believe that what she was doing was wrong and impossible. The only cold, hard truth that she could understand and feel was that she was alone. Alone and abandoned.
She turned her face towards him. Fresh tears fell from her eyes as she looked at him. She didn't care about shame anymore. "Hold me," she said.
The man wore a slight frown, his usual irritation and giddiness gone from his expression. His arm reached forward and wrapped around her middle, pulling her closer to him. She snaked her arms around him, pressing herself against the length of his body. The side of her face nuzzled against his cold chest. She could make out the soft beating of his heart inside. She felt confused at that for a moment but then forgot it, letting herself only embrace the traveling of his hands along her body.
Lydia didn't care that the normally talkative ghost before her held his tongue. She didn't care that he more than likely could barely remember who she was. The touch of his hands and body melted her worries away from her mind, from her sorrow.
He moaned when she touched him. She could feel the vibrations of his voice with her mouth against his neck. Pinpoints of pleasure and lust swallowed her whole, making all thought leave her.
They moved together on the bed, two bodies in a silent rhythm. Sweat plastered Lydia's hair against her face. Her mouth dry and wanting. The man pressed his face against the crook of her neck as he moved against her, inside her. She curled her fingers in his wild hair, uncaring if she was pulling too hard.
Time passed. The sun's light entered through the open blinds and spilled across the bedspread. The heat of the light touched Lydia's exposed leg and she pulled up into the dark. When she opened her eyes she realized that she was alone. The sound of running water met her ears. She got up quickly and turned the shower off, steam dissipating in the cold air.
Thoughts of madness and hallucination darted through her head. She wasn't sure what to think about what happened only a few hours prior. She wasn't sure if it even happened.
She turned to start packing for her trip home, feeling the pressure of tears begin to build again, but something caught her eye. It was the mirror in the bathroom. Something was smudged across the surface. Leaning in closer, Lydia realized what it was and quickly ran the hot water in the sink below the mirror. Steam drifted up into the air, water condensing on the reflective glass above.
Words formed slowly, the brushstrokes of an index finger against glass.
Any time, babe.