Most people are lucky enough to experience their own death only once in a lifetime. I experience mine at least once a day. That's one thing I don't think Sam and Tucker will ever understand. That icy breath I let out when a ghost is around is actually chilling my insides. When I transform, I can feel my body die. My heart stops beating and all my insides shutdown as if I were actually dying. It's usually quick, but sometimes I feel my death for all it's worth.
So I can't help but feel relieved that my father's death was instant. Relief there wasn't any time for him to feel the pain of his body giving up. The relief is overshadowed by the fact that my mother's death is slow. I'm sitting with my sister, by her bed in the emergency room. I was fighting Ember when my parent's lab exploded, past my curfew, of course, while both my parents and my sister were fast asleep.
The fire destroyed our home, and my sister, they tell me, will be alright, but my mother is in surgery to repair her lungs and heart. The doctors and surgeon aren't optimistic, so I sit by Jazz, waiting, with my head in my hands, because I'm too spent to do anything but that. I can't even cry.
For the first time in a long time I can feel my insides. They're hot with anger, grief and desire. A desire to know who was responsible for what happened, because when the police stopped by the ER to question me three hours ago, they were also at a loss. The feeling is so different from my usual chill that I take immediate notice. I forget sometimes, that half off me is still living, breathing – though it pains me to do so at the moment. I can feel my heart beat, and the blood pulse through me…
I can't believe I ever took this feeling for granted.