Chapter 06
The next several weeks had gone by relatively slow and uneventful; Bill now rarely ever showed himself, and Tom thought, with a sense of self satisfaction, that he had somehow made the ghost leave. The nineteen year old had even managed to find himself a part-time job at the urban apparel store just down the street, and was hoping to soon earn enough money to move out of the shitty apartment he currently inhabited. And to get away from the little "problem" that he happened to share his home with.
Tom stabbed at one of the toaster-waffles on the plate in front of him and sighed, leaning his elbows against the tables surface. He eyed the waffles drenched in syrup with disdain; not what one would call a nutritional breakfast. The dreadlocked mans eyes flickered toward the calendar that hung crookedly on the wall next to the fridge; Christmas was growing ever closer, just under two weeks from now, and Tom felt even more lonely. All of his friends would be either visiting family or on holidays somewhere. He never thought he'd have to spend the holidays on his own. The dread-head felt the air in the room grow icy yet again, interrupting his bitter thoughts. Although the ghost rarely appeared lately, Tom could still feel the chill that lingered on the air when Bill was lurking, invisible.
After shoving another piece of waffle into his mouth, Tom dropped the fork onto his plate with a clatter that broke the uncomfortable silence that filled the miniscule apartment, rubbing one hand tiredly across his face. Tom was absolutely positive that he was going to crack any day now from all of this; if this whole "haunting" thing didn't drive him insane, surely the constant thought of it eventually would. It always seemed to be there, gnawing at the back of his mind, disrupting him whenever he felt even close to peaceful.
As the air grew steadily colder, Tom let out an angry groan, gritting his teeth together.
"I know you're there, what's the point of trying to be all secretive?" he snapped into thin air, and, just as he suspected, got no answer. The nineteen year old slid the chair back, the legs screeching loudly against the hardwood floor.
"Where are you going?" a soft voice asked from somewhere behind Tom as he approached the door. Only when the curiosity of what Tom was up to was too much to bear, would Bill break his silence.
"Out," the dreadlocked man replied shortly, "and I still haven't decided if you're just a figment of my imagination or not. Until then; leave me alone." He slammed the door behind him before the ghost could reply.
***
Bill watched Tom disappear down the street through the dingy window, slowly drifting across the room when he had lost site of the dreadlocked man. The ghost hovered toward the small bathroom, the toes of his shoes barely skimming the hardwood floor. Sure, he could walk, just like a human; but why do something so boring, something he constantly did when he was alive? He enjoyed the feeling of floating, anyway; one of the very, very few perks of being a ghost.
He drifted toward the bathroom door, eyes flickering toward the mirror. Of course there was no reflection in the mirror, nor had there been one the countless other times Bill had looked. Bill hadn't seen himself in a mirror since some hours before he died, and desperately wanted to know what he looked like now. He looked down at his hands. His nails were still long, painted in a slightly chipped black and white manicure. Bill figured that if he had known he was about to die, he would have at least made time to touch them up before hand. Now he'd never get the chance to redo them, or his makeup, or his hair…
Damn.
Bill ridded his mind of the unpleasant thoughts, quickly fading into invisibility before sinking through the floor. He landed in the dimly lit hall below, where the elderly landlady was bustling around. She stopped suddenly, raising her head to look around, and the ghost wondered if she someone knew he was there. After several seconds, she turned back to what she had been doing before, and Bill drifted through the wall, into the street outside. He looked up at the sky, watching the fluffy snowflakes descend lazily from the cold, grey heavens. The people that rushed by him on the sidewalk were all bundled up in heavy coats and scarves, their cheeks pink from the icy winter air. Bill watched a young red haired girl pass by him quickly, and felt a pang of annoyance. He wanted to be able to feel the cold air against his bare skin, the bitter coldness of snow in the palm of his hand. The ghost wanted to be able to gain back all the sensations, being able to touch things and actually feel them, to acquire the ability to feel human emotions again, to get back practically everything that had been ripped away from him much too early.
The ghost floated across the street, barely noticing as a car drove through him. Bill found his mind unwillingly drifting back to Tom; wondering where he was and what he was doing at the exact moment. He made a small sound of discontent and pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. What was it about the dreadlocked teen that seemed to draw Bill to him? Tom was annoying and egotistical most of the time, not to mention he was quick to anger and had a temper like no other… so why was it that the ghost just couldn't get him out of his thoughts? To put it simply; Tom was an asshole, the kind of person that Bill usually went to extreme lengths to avoid when he was alive. He knew that Tom hated him (Bill realized that this was understandable, since he had made Tom question his sanity since day one), and would never have the chance to befriend the dread-head.
Bill glared after a group of giggling teenagers that had walked through him, before turning around and heading back toward the old apartment building. Now he remembered why he rarely left it; being outside made him realize how badly he missed living. Everywhere he seemed to look, the ghost was reminded of everything he so sorely missed, and wanted to get back into the isolated apartment as quick as possible.
Once back in the small room, Bill quickly came into view again, and sat on the floor against the wall under the window, pulling his knees up against his chest. If it was possible for him to cry right now, he most definitely would.
***
Bill was at the window yet again, leaning against the sill and absently staring into the darkness outside, watching the blizzard-like conditions. He could barely see the buildings on the other side of the street through the flurry of snow, and suddenly wondered if Tom was okay. The dreadlocked man had been gone all day.
He's fine, a voice nagged at the back of Bills mind. Why worry about him, anyway?
Bill turned away from the window, eyes scanning over the room. It was a mess, no doubt most of it still from him. Various articles of clothing were scattered across the hardwood floor, the sheets and blankets of the bed in a crumbled pile at the end of the bed and on the floor. For some strange, unknown reason, there was a pillow on the bedside table.
The ghost glided toward the other side of the room, grasping the pillow in his hands and placing it in it's appropriate place on the bed. He felt the need to somehow occupy himself. Bill untangled the mass of blankets and sheets from the end of the bed, throwing them neatly over the mattress. When the bedding was all properly adjusted, Bill ran his hands over the dark coloured duvet, smoothing out the wrinkles. He hated being able to touch, but not actually feel the softness of the cotton under his fingers. Bill glanced at the small digital clock on the dresser. It was a quarter after seven in the evening, and he hoped Tom would arrive home soon. He bent to retrieve the pile of crumpled clothing from the floor, folding each massive t-shirt and pair of jeans expertly, and finally placing them in a neat pile on the edge of the dresser.
***
Tom didn't come home until a little before midnight; naturally, Bill had been standing by the window, waiting, when he was seen the dread-head and some other teen with bleached hair pass by on the sidewalk below. The two young men stopped in front of the doors of the apartment building, and Tom shook out a bunch of snow that had gathered in the hood of his sweater. Bill couldn't hear them, but he saw the blonde let out a laugh, seeming to look at Tom with something that resembled admiration.
The ghost frowned, folding his arms over his chest. Bill instantly disliked him. He watched as the blonde placed a hand on Toms shoulder, letting it linger there longer than it should. Something akin to jealousy tugged at Bills lifeless insides. This boy clearly had ulterior motives.
Bill watched the two of them disappear inside, and when he heard their footsteps and voices coming down the hall, decided that he had to do something about this.
The next chapter might not come quite as quickly as the rest have so far. (I'm really busy and work sucks, sorry!)
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