A/N: Okay. So I thought I'd write this because I was pretty bored. So just tell me what you guys think. Honesty is the preference… oh yea. and I don't own the Mediator books or Jesse or Suze.. I have a feeling you already know that though.. lol
Why can't ghosts want to move on? I thought to myself as I stumbled into the elevator and took it up to the third floor of the apartment building, where my boyfriend Jesse and I lived.
Jesse was going to be pissed. I knew that much for sure. My wrist was bent at an awkward angle, my face was throbbing and my left knee felt like it was on fire, not to mention the blood that was pouring out of the gash on my forehead.
Getting beat to a bloody pulp isn't my hobby you see, I'm a mediator, you know, a person who can communicate with ghosts. It's kind of my job to help people who are dead find their way into the next life or wherever it is that people go once they kick the bucket.
I met Jesse when I moved out to California with my mom in the 11th grade. At that time he was a ghost, haunting my bedroom and majorly pissing me off. Let's just say some things have changed, he's now completely alive and we're living in New York while he goes to Med-School and I try to figure out what I want to do with my life.
You see, usually we deal with ghosts together. We figure out what we should do and then execute our plans as a team, just to make sure things go smoothly. But I have this stubborn streak, about a mile wide, and when that streak teams up with my pride things can get a little hairy. A prime example of that was the ghost I had just exorcised only a short amount of time before I had dragged my body into the elevator. This guy had really known how to push my buttons and he did it with glee, Jesse knew that I tend to be rash when I get irritated, especially when it a ghost doing the irritating. He had been watching me like a hawk over the past couple of days to make sure I didn't run off to try to kick some ghost butt while he was looking the other way or something. But this evening we were supposed to help our friends Cee Cee and Adam move out of their apartment into their new shiny home. I had wanted to see them, but the thought of finishing off this smart mouthed ghost just kind of consumed me, I pretended that I had cramps – yes I know it's a cheap excuse, but hey, guys never question it – and Jesse went over to Cee Cee and Adam's to help out, leaving me on the couch with a bottle of Advil and the channel changer.
When I had known for sure that Jesse was gone from our building, I changed into my ass-kicking clothes (which, naturally consists of a lot of black) and ran to show that ghost who was boss. In the end, I pretty much got shown who was boss, which brings me back to being in the elevator.
I stumbled out of the elevator; holding my injured wrist close to my body and feeling my cell phone vibrate in my pocket, notifying me of missed calls, which I assumed were from a worried Jesse. I had been gone for a pretty long time, and that wasn't counting how ever long I had lain unconscious on the ground after the aftershock of exorcising the ghost knocked me out.
I got to the door that stood between me and my soft, warm bed and stopped for a moment before gingerly reaching out my least injured arm and turned the doorknob, of course it was locked, and so I knocked lightly, wincing as pain reverberated through my shoulder.
I heard strong footsteps coming towards me and a second later the door swung open and Jesse was standing in front of me with an expression of relief on his face, which was quickly replaced with one of deep concern.
"Querida, what happened to you?" he asked as he guided me into our apartment, not wanting to touch me too hard since he didn't know how badly I was hurt.
"I-I-I'm sorry Jesse." I said as a few tears escaped from my eyes and my legs began to wobble. I had been holding it together pretty well until that moment, but the shock was wearing off and the pain of my injuries was making itself known in the worst way.
Jesse got me to the couch before my legs completely gave out and he rushed into the bathroom to retrieve our little first aid kit. He came back with it and a wet washcloth which he pressed gently against the cut on my forehead to slow the bleeding.
"Shh," he said "shhh, it's alright, I promise you. Can you hold the cloth to your head? Just tell me what hurts."
I suddenly felt utterly exhausted and completely comfortable at the same time and my eyes began to slide shut.
Jesse, seeing what was happening, grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake,
"Susannah! Come on, just stay with me. You can do it, I know you can!"
I let out a cry as he shook me because he'd seriously jostled my wrist which I had presumed broken.
"I'm so sorry baby. Just hold on, okay?"
In a few swift motions he had me wrapped in a blanket and was lifting me off the couch.
The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was the rapid beat of Jesse's heart and the soft click of our apartment door shutting behind us.