Chapter Three

**

"S-Sabin?" Shelley stammered, looking at the man in front of him.

"That's my name, it's true. Now get out of bed, I'm bored. Let's go play Halo or something." And with that, Sabin turned and walked out of the room

Shelley sat perfectly still, convinced that he was dreaming. It was only when he heard the sound of his TV turning on that he scrambled out of bed and ran to the lounge room. Sabin was now sitting on the couch, looking at the TV, Xbox controller in hand, waiting for the game to load.

"I don't believe it... you're not dead."

Sabin made a sound like a game show buzzer. "I'm sorry, that answer is incorrect! No, I'm as dead as your fashion sense, Alex. And yet here I am. Do I amaze you?"

"But how?" Shelley asked, furtively pinching himself. The only answer he could think up was that he was dreaming or he had actually gone insane. Shrugging slightly, he decided to make the most of his time with Sabin. He started to walk towards the couch and sat while Sabin explained.

"I'm here to keep you company, pretty simple really." He glanced at Shelley, and seeing that he didn't accept so short an explanation, sighed and continued. "You couldn't move on, so I'm here to help you with that. You need to live your life, and not moon over me. They usually don't do this for a man of your, uh, situation, but when they saw how badly you were coping, a decision was made."

"They?"

Sabin waved the question away. "Don't even bother to ask, I couldn't answer even if I knew for sure."

Shelley knew by the tone in Sabin's voice that he wasn't going to get a straight answer, so he moved on to the next question. "Why'd it take you so long, then?"

Sabin groaned. "The bureaucracy man, it'll kill you. Well, figuratively speaking, anyway. You'd think that by dying you'd get a pass on all the red tape bullshit, but apparently not. It's a process. If you feel guilty for a death, even if it's none of your fault, you're given time to mourn. If you don't get past the mourning stage, you're sent signs. In your case, it's the dates. Which I just want to say, not my choice – somebody thinks they have a sense of humour, but if they'd just asked I could've given them much better things to make you see. Anyway, signs." Sabin took a deep breath and put his controller down, turning to Shelley. "These signs are meant to encourage you – you're meant to have an epiphany, or a revelation, or at the very least ask someone for help. If you do that, then they assume you're moving on. If you're a pent up Gemini wrestler and are apparently incapable of asking for or seeking help, like someone I know, then you get to the third stage."

"And the third stage is?" Shelley asked, already knowing the answer.

Sabin pointed to himself. "Yo."

"Ok." Shelley said, chewing his lip. "Assuming I'm not asleep and haven't lost my mind, what are you here for?"

"Learn to listen. I have to help you get past the mourning stage and move on with your life. And then I'll disappear."

"And if I don't want to move on? What if I mourn you forever, will you have to stay here?"

"Actually, yeah. Which between you and me, I'd have no problem with. I was so damn bored up there; peace and contentment aren't really all that interesting without someone to share it with." Sabin said, and then as an afterthought added. "No homo. You're my heterosexual life partner, and I guess you're going to be my death partner, too."

"And when I die?"

"I'll disappear. I only exist here while you are on this plane of existence. Once you make your exit, we both get to move on."

"Say I'm willing to accept all of what you've just said, that I'm not dreaming or crazy or whatever. What about everyone else?"

"What about them?" Sabin said, picking up the controller again.

"If I went and got someone else, would they be able to see you? Would they be able to see the things you're moving?"

"Nope, I'm your own personal ghost. Only you can hear me, only you can see me, and I'm strictly forbidden from moving objects while other people are present. But it's pretty cool, it's all a choice. I can walk through walls! Anyway, can we play Halo now? You know how I hate exposition."

Shelley nodded, accepting the controller that Sabin was offering. He didn't know what to make of what he had been told and what he was seeing, but until it was proven otherwise, he was happy to have his friend with him.

**

The next morning when Shelley woke, Sabin was still there, sitting on the end of his bed, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Shelley looked around him and found popcorn littering his pillow and through his hair.

"I got bored." Sabin explained.

As he was changing the sheets, which were now covered with butter, Sabin explained his plan. He had had a lot of time to think while he was waiting to see how Shelley's mourning would turn out, and thought he had found a loophole. He explained that Shelley could go on with his life, progress as nature had intended, but if he remained dependant on the company Sabin provided – "like when I was alive" Sabin said, grinning – then they could stay together.

"But I need you to know," Sabin had added at the end, staring at the ground as he said it, "that I don't want to stand in the way of your life. My time as a living, breathing person is up, it's true, but yours is meant to continue. So if other factors come in to it, and I'm not an appropriate...fixture in your life anymore, get over me. That's fine. I'll be waiting on the other side anyway."

Shelley grimaced to hear his friend talk in this way and threw a coaster at him. It sailed through Sabin's head, making him momentarily shimmer. "Shut up, Sabin."

**

As the months passed and Sabin didn't vanish, Shelley grew used to his presence. Life seemed to go back to normal – he got back in shape, returned to wrestling, appeared to have undergone a miraculous recovery. In time, he got used to not making jokes with Sabin while other people were around, and Shelley tried his best to keep his secret. There were the occasional slip ups, where he would be caught talking to Sabin or looking at something that nobody else could see, but in those times he covered his actions up as best he could. It was normal, he said, for people to talk to themselves, and he would claim to be thinking when he was actually watching something.

Life went on, and Shelley grew more confident in hiding his secret. He thought he had it figured out.

**

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...

...

**

"Alright Miss Adams, next on the block is..." The woman consulted her clipboard, adjusting her glasses. "Alex Shelley. He came to us 3 years ago and was admitted by the state. Like all the other patients here, he's not dangerous, just an unlucky young man. He suffers auditory and visual delusions of his deceased friend. After the death, he dropped into a depression for several months, and then seemed to recover. Got back into work, into a social life, was able to continue a normal life. His family and friends then noticed, however, that he was communicating with and reacting to a stimulus that wasn't there. He is typically calm, but will not discuss his friend..." the woman consulted the clipboard again, "Chris Sabin, and therefore we cannot progress with treatment. Until he is willing to accept that his friend is gone and we can begin to treat his delusions, the court has ordered that he remain here."

The younger woman was scribbling notes as the other was talking, and when she paused, she looked up. "Is there anything in particular I should be doing with this one? To convince him of his friend's death?"

"This particular patient doesn't need to be convinced of his friend's death – when asked, he'll readily admit that Mr Sabin has passed. But he will still actively engage in conversation while he is not being openly monitored. He will go periods without communication with what he believes to be his friend, but he will always go back to talking to him. We believe he is afraid of appearing as if he has 'moved on', and therefore makes a choice. He is willing to stay here so that his friend can stay with him."

The younger woman frowned.

"Now, moving along..." The older woman started walking to the next door. As she followed, Miss Adams looked in through the window. There, sitting on the standard single bed that all low-risk patients of the Detroit Psychiatric Institute were provided, was a young man. His dark hair appeared to be styled into a Mohawk, and he was clearly a man that kept in shape. He was talking animatedly to the space in front of him, pausing every so often as if listening to a response. She tried to direct her gaze to where he was looking, and saw an indentation on that bed opposite him, as if someone was – or very recently had been – sitting there. She made a mental note of his face, and hastily followed the older woman, who was waiting by the next door.

**