Well hello! Thank you for all the reviews and follows already, it's very encouraging. This chapter is a bit quick, but I hope you like it nonetheless.
It should really be almost completely bearable to be invisible once you've been that way for over a century. But it wasn't. Especially when your trying your best to make do but some people have to get all worked up because they don't know who put their pants away. John huffed, musing to himself as he sulked underneath Dave's bed. Dave was off at school. The room had become rigged with traps, things that could be knocked over easily by intruders and cameras set up everywhere. Shows what John got for working his butt off for Dave.
John stayed still underneath the bed, resting against the floor. Theoretically, he could phase through stuff if he wanted to, but if Dave really didn't want him cleaning the balled up papers off the floor then fine.
So, with nothing to busy himself he decided on sulking. Transparent cheek smushed into the carpet, he grumbled, curling his tail up to his chest. It wasn't fair. There weren't even other ghosts to talk to. As far as he could tell, he was the only ghost ever. Or at least the only one in the ten story apartment in Houston.
He couldn't remember being so desperate to get attention in a long time. While Dave cleaned up the cameras and fast forwarded through the video, he shouted in his ear as loudly as he could. His voice was dull and echoing, and completely unheard by Dave.
He looked over at the notebook on the side of Dave's desk. He frowned, slumping down. It was easy enough to pretend he was going to talk to Dave if something he knew wasn't going to work, work. But writing in a notebook would definitely work. And John hadn't talked to anyone but himself in a very, very long time. He doubted it would work out very well.
He tried to remember what it was like. Having friends. But just as every time he tried to remember what it had been like before he died, he didn't get much. Only a faint memory of a pounding headache, and chills. Even that was short, like a clip from something he could play over and over until he felt like he had the same headache all over again.
He watched Dave quietly. Like usual, he was thinking a lot about what to do, but not really coming up with a good plan.
TG: no rose
TG: i swear to fuck
TG: it has to be a god damn ghost
TG: because i dont fold my laundry
TT: I hardly see why a ghost would be organizing your clothing for you.
TG: neither do i but
TG: but clearly they are
TG: maybe it was a maid or something
John frowned, bobbing up and down as he read over Dave's shoulder. He was not a maid! At least, not as well as he could remember. Again, that shit got pretty fuzzy.
TT: Well, you're being awfully rude.
TT: Clearly they are only trying to help, whatever the reason.
TG: so what am i supposed to do
TG: bust out a ouija board
TT: Have you even tried to communicate with it normally.
TG: uh
John backed up, smiling slightly, and nodding at Dave, as though he could encourage him to listen to his friend TT. Dave spun his chair around, looking at the opposite side of the room than John was actually on. John flew over to where Dave was looking for the hell of it. The living boy cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "So," he drawled. "Ah. I might just be talking to nobody here and maybe I'm alphabetizing my records in my sleep but… hey." John grinned, positively elated.
"Hi Dave!" He said in his hollow, echoing voice. He was too used to not being responded to to be disappointed.
"Uh. I guess you can probably pick shit up. So, here, there's a pad of paper on my desk. You can write somethin' there or whatever if you want to say hi. Erm, so yeah." Dave looked around the room, sitting quietly. John eagerly went over to the paper, reaching out to Dave's pencil cup, before frowning, pulling his hand away. If he had a heart, it would be hammering. He couldn't do this! Chickening out, he shrunk to the opposite side of the room, curling up sulkily as he heard Dave let out a long sigh. Next time, he promised himself.