Be Jazz Fenton.
Be six-years-old and watch everything fall apart. Watch the house grow dark and Mommy cry all the time. Watch your Daddy stop being like Daddy anymore, watch him get angry too easy and smell funny, strong and sharp. Watch everything get dirty as you count days.
Counting is very hard for you, hard when nothing else is, and you don't understand why the numbers get all jumbly in your head. Why they run together and flip-flop, cross in your eyes and blur until nothing makes sense anymore. It's why you can only count to twenty when everyone else counts into their hundreds, why you have to have special classes with Mr. Robbins after school sometimes.
The teachers say that you're so smart, very gifted, advanced, but then the numbers come at you like angry bees, buzzing in your head and it doesn't matter what they say because you know you're stupid. Dumb and stupid and a big baby because you can't even count past twenty without everything going sideways.
Be Jazz Fenton.
Come home on the school bus and hope hope hope that Mommy will have food for you to eat. Pray that Daddy won't yell at you after looking at your bad math test. It's a D, you know, and it makes your tummy tie in knots to think about how stupid math makes you feel, how the numbers don't make sense like letters do. How they make you want to knock your head against the desk and cry, cry, cry until your head hurts and you can't breathe anymore.
The house is cold and Daddy is snoring on the couch. He smells bad like dirty feet and that nasty brown water that he drinks all the time now, so you stay close to the wall, take off your shoes (they hurt your feet) and coat (it's got lots of holes in it) and tip-toe to the kitchen. Mommy is sitting at the table. There's red around her nails, on the table.
Mommy chews her fingers lots now, too, and sometimes they bleed.
Keep your head down. Don't look Mommy in the eye 'cause she doesn't like that. Keep your voice quiet so Daddy doesn't wake up and then ask if there's anything to eat. Say you're very hungry, Mommy, can you please have something warm?
Don't flinch when a hand slams on the table. You should've stayed quiet, you know, but your tummy is making horrible noises. It hurts. But then Mommy looks at you and her eyes are scary, not warm or sad or even mad. She looks very cold, like she doesn't want to talk to you. Like she doesn't want you at all.
That just makes your tummy hurt worse.
Listen as Mommy asks the question.
"How did you do on your math today?"
Think about what you want to say. Do you want to lie? Tell Mommy that you did good, hope that she'll believe you and you'll get food and a smile, maybe a hug? Do you want to tell the truth? Know that truth sometimes (always) hurts but it's better than being a fibber, know that Mommy always gets madder when you lie and then she'll wake up Daddy and, oh, then won't that be trouble? Bite your lip until it bleeds and clench your fists until they're white.
Tell the truth even though it aches and you feel so stupid. So ugly. So bad.
Watch Mommy's eyes grow cold like the air outside – it's almost Christmas but you haven't decorated the tree – and know that there's no food coming. Listen as she hisses like a snake, ugly words that sting worse than getting smacked by tree branches at recess. Look down at your shoes and don't say a word because talking back makes it worse. Everything makes it worse. Because Mommy doesn't want you to look at her, but she doesn't want you to look "weak" either. It's always so confusing.
Look me in the eye, Jasmine, but don't stare. Keep your chin up, Jasmine, but keep your head down. Fight back, Jasmine, but don't you dare embarrass me like that ever again.
Don't cry.
Don't you ever cry like that!
Once it is over, run away. Up the stairs covered in dust and down the hall that smells stale. Don't try to keep track of the stains on the wallpaper because there's new ones every day. Daddy likes to throw things sometimes. Just like Daddy yells sometimes and Daddy hits sometimes and Daddy says he hates you sometimes.
He doesn't mean it – honest.
Throw your backpack on the bed and sit very quietly. Pet Bearbert's stuffed ears to keep your hands from doing something bad. Look at the math papers sitting beside you. Hate yourself. Cry quietly. Never ever let Mommy hear because it makes her mad now, not sad like it used to. Know that everything is breaking apart.
Ignore the grumbling in your tummy and try to go to sleep after you finish all your take-home assignments. The book you're reading for class is called "Charlotte's Web." They're trying to kill Wilbur, the farmer and his wife. Sometimes, when you sleep, you dream of spinning a pretty web except instead of "humble" it says "Danny."
Sometimes, when you sleep, you see a little boy with white hair crying for you.
You don't sleep a lot anymore.
Wake up in the morning and realize it's even colder. Shiver because the tile is freezing your toes. Because there aren't enough blankets without holes. Because you want your Danny back and it's been. . . the numbers jumble and you try to count in groups again. Four twenties – which is eighty, Mr. Pendergrass said so – and then four more. Eighty-four.
Eighty-four days and Danny still isn't home and you miss him.
Don't cry. Pull on pants, ones that aren't dirty and don't have holes, then find your pretty blue shirt. The one with butterflies that Danny likes. Find sneakers. They're a little small, dirty like everything else is, and the left shoe-string is coming undone at the end. But Mommy and Daddy were fighting a lot last night. Yelling until very, very late. They don't have time to buy you new shoes now.
These will be okay.
Walk on tippy-toes downstairs and make sure Daddy isn't at the table. He isn't. He's snoring on the couch, mouth wide open. There's a bottle spilling onto the carpet. Everything smells. Mommy isn't here. She's probably in the lab, where she always is, the very bad smell locked away like everything else when the door is shut. You look at the door for a second and rub at your arms – there are fingerprints there this morning 'cause Mommy had grabbed just a little too hard when she yelled - and decide to get on the bus anyway. You don't need breakfast. Don't need hugs or kisses or a goodbye (even though you miss all those things a lot).
You think that you need Danny, though.
The bus is crowded and it's a different kind of stink. You've never liked being in crowded places. Too many people, too many noises, too many smells, too much. But Mommy and Daddy don't drive you to school anymore. So here you are.
A paper wad hits you in the back of the head. Stay quiet. Look away. Pretend it didn't happen and maybe they'll leave you alone. Cling to your book until the cover makes red marks on your fingers. Ignore how your tummy knots and your eyes sting.
If Danny was here, he'd give you a hug and smile and say that you're the greatest, Sissy, don't let them be mean!
But Danny isn't here.
"Hey, freak, are you deaf or something? I'm talking to you!"
This is an older boy. His name is Christian, and he's in Mrs. Mendenkamp's fifth-grade class. You don't know what you did wrong. But he doesn't like you, calls you freak and hits you with papers and says lots of mean things. Sometimes you wonder if his daddy is mean like your Daddy has been, which makes you sad, so just stay quiet. Because he'll mostly ignore you if you don't say anything.
A hard yank and your head hurts.
"I said, I'm talking to you!"
There are tears in your eyes because this hurts, like that time Daddy accidentally shoved you against a wall or when Mommy says it should've been you. But you don't say anything because the words that you love so much just won't work. Christian is very big, kind of chubby, and his eyes are small and mean. He's got an ugly look on his face.
Pretend that you're not scared.
Pretend that you don't care.
Pretend. . .
"Leave her alone, jerk!"
There's another boy and he slams against Christian, not much bigger than you, but it works. Somehow, it works. Christian lets go, sneers some more and calls you "freak" before he sits down and laughs with his stupid friends. Your fingers are shaking and your tummy hurts and you know it's rude, but you can't stop staring.
Dash Baxter sits beside you with a thump, his backpack in his lap, and he looks nervous?
"Are you okay? Christian's a big jerk. You shouldn't let him be mean to you like that 'cause he won't stop."
You blink. Once, twice, three times. Your mouth feels dry and your head is fuzzy. Confused. Why is Dash being nice? You got in big trouble for hitting him on the playground and now he's sitting beside you on the school bus, looking at you like he's scared. Like he's your friend?
You nod anyway. Pretend this is normal and maybe it will be normal.
Try to ignore how your tummy groans very loudly.
Dash doesn't ignore it. He looks at you with eyes that are blue (very blue) before opening his backpack. He digs around for a minute, pulls out his lunchbox and opens it. Then he hands you a Honey Bun, still in its wrapper.
"Here," he says, "I'm not gonna eat it anyway. Mom never remembers I don't like them."
He's lying, and you know it, because he eats a Honey Bun every day at lunch. But your stomach is growling angrily, trying to reach out and take the food, and Dash is looking very serious. He's got serious eyes, like his daddy does. So grab the cake. Unwrap it but make sure it's okay before you take a bite.
Know that it's the best thing you've ever eaten.
Dash picks at a loose thread in his jeans when you ask, "Why are you being so nice?"
His hair is very blonde up close. It's short except for on top. Not like Danny's, shaggy and long and always messy. Dash's hair always stays in place, does what it's told, and it fits him. He doesn't talk for a little bit. But that's okay. Words are hard for Dash like numbers are hard for you. So you munch on the Honey Bun and wait, try to fix your bows where Christian pulled them apart. It doesn't make the burning on your scalp less or the ache in your arms go away. But it makes you look better.
"I didn't mean to upset you so bad the other day," Dash says, quiet like he's scared of the words. "Paulina told me that if I made you mad, you'd know I liked you."
Blink twice again. "That's silly, Dash."
Watch him shrug. "I'm not real good with words. But I thought Paulina would help me. I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry I made you cry."
He. . . he likes you?
"You like me?"
Dash looks at you funny, like you've said something weird. "Yeah! You're real smart, and you've got pretty hair, and you always know how to answer questions in class! Why didn't you think I liked you?"
Because nobody likes you. The other kids have always called you a freak, a know-it-all, a weirdo, a loser. They chase you at recess with sticks and hit you with mud-balls and pull at your hair. But then you think and realize Dash only did those things when Paulina asked him to. Only threw mud when Kwan was laughing, like it was a joke. Dash is new, didn't go to kindergarten with you.
The other kids can be very mean to him sometimes – that's why he tries to be louder and bigger.
"Nobody's ever liked me except Danny."
Your voice sounds very small. The bus is roaring, kids getting up and grabbing bags as it stops outside Amity Elementary. Dash is wearing a serious look again, blue eyes very blue in his head. "Well, that's dumb. I like you plenty. Want to be friends?"
Want to be friends?
Nobody has ever wanted to be your friend before. Feel your heart go tight and your fingers are shaking again. But remember to smile because this is happy. This is something normal even though nothing else is. Even though you're stupid and weird and have a mommy and daddy that don't love you anymore. Even though Danny is gone (eighty-four days) and you miss him so, so much it hurts. This can be new. This can be fun.
Smile wider.
"Yeah. We can be friends."
Watch as Dash grins and it makes his face seem brighter. Feel strange as he pulls you up by one hand and holds it all the way out the door. Listen as he talks about the book you're reading for class, how he's only on the second chapter because he can't seem to make the letters stay still on the page. Tell him you have the same problem, except with numbers, and watch as his eyes get big in his head.
Be Jazz Fenton.
And learn what it's like to be normal for a second.
Be Jazz Fenton.
And as the day goes on, as you learn that Dash doesn't have any brothers or sisters and his favorite color is green and he wants to be a Green Bay Packer when he grows up, pretend that this is how it can be for always. Pretend that you can make as many friends as you want. Ones like Dash, who listens with his very serious eyes and smiles when you laugh at his bad jokes. Don't get chased at recess for the first time since kindergarten because Dash tells Kwan to stuff it and sits next to you. Explain how there's still little birds that live here even though it's winter and smile when he tells you that's cool.
He thinks birds who stay cold are tough.
Ride home on the bus with dread in your tummy and hold tight to your backpack. Swallow hard when it stops at your house.
"Hey, you'll ride the bus tomorrow, right?"
Yes, you will, because Mommy doesn't want to drive you anymore and Daddy will be sleeping.
"Yeah, I'll ride."
Dash smiles and it's bright like the sunshine. "Alright! I'll save you a seat, 'kay?"
Smile back even though it feels a little stiff. "'kay."
Get off the bus. Go in the house, which smells worse, and tiptoe. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again, you can hear it through the lab door, so make sure that they don't hear it when you go upstairs. Something breaks against the wall. Mommy yells real loud, words you can't make out but probably don't make sense anyways. Do your worksheets with the door shut and try to remember the math tricks that Dash told you about, try to make sense of the numbers that don't want to line up.
Is thirty bigger or thirty-three? You can never tell – too many squiggles.
Hug Bearbert Einstein to your chest as your room gets dark, listen to your tummy rumble, and wish you had a Honey Bun.
Be Jazz Fenton.
Wish you had your Danny back.
~*O*~
danny
wakes
up
and he's very confused. he's warm. safe. wrapped in very soft blankets and wearing clothes, not a jumpsuit, no hurt. why again? doesn't remember. too hard to think. wants more sleep, please, no more hurt.
snuggles back into a something under his cheek and it moves and. . .
danny remembers now.
it makes his head hurt, his heart hurt, and that man named johnny had said there was something wrong with him, wrong wrong wrong and he just doesn't know what anymore, doesn't know why and it all twists up in his tummy, behind his eyes mommy, I'm sorry why can't I see? even though they still feel all achy.
he sucks in some air, tries to breathe, but he's swimming in honey again. except it's not honey, it's green, thick sticky and gross like when he came out of the straw-hole, when he met mr. walker, and danny doesn't. . . ?
it's not right and he doesn't understand and. . .
"Danny, baby, it's alright. Sweetie, I'm right here. You're just fine."
soft in his ear, very quiet. not mean like mommy or loud like daddy or growly like mr. walker. pretty and nice like jazzy. he remembers now. holds tight to ms. penny because she understand and she said it would be all better it's a trick don't believe her and danny thinks that this would be nice if the world wasn't so scary. if he wasn't swimming in sticky-green and his mommy and daddy loved him and maybe, just maybe, he can be a good boy again?
he isn't very good, not yet, but he's trying, please?
hands in his hair, fingers very gentle, and danny tries not to hold so tight. what if he hurts her? that's very bad, not good at all. sometimes he used to hurt jazzy when he hugged too hard and she'd look at him with her big-sissy eyes and say no, danny, you've gotta be nice!
but jazzy also came home with big bruises sometimes, purple and green under her pink and blue sweaters, and danny always had to be super extra careful when that happened. he misses jazzy, misses bearbert einstein and bear aldrin and even mommy where's danny ghost?! and daddy I'll tear you apart before they didn't love him anymore.
"That's it, sweetheart. Shhh, I've got you. That must've been some nap, huh?"
nap?
oh, a nap. he was dreaming? he'd been dreaming?
danny thinks he might be shaking again and his lips won't stop wobbling, nose all stuffy and he wants to cry again. wants to curl up in a ball and sleep until it all goes away, until everything is better, except it's never better, right? because he's a very bad boy and bad boys don't get good things, don't let happy things happen, and he doesn't deserve the clothes and the hugs and the kisses and the food because he's just the worst little boy, he's sure.
because he made his mommy and daddy hate him except he didn't know how.
'm sorry for bein' bad. . .
his throat feels hot and it hurts and his mouth tastes funny, like he's been sucking on dirty pennies, and danny feels ms. penny cup the back of his head again.
"Danny, baby, can you look at me for a second? Please?"
nope.
danny doesn't want to.
he wants to curl up in his blankets and hold tight and be safe. looking means that someone sees him and even though ms. penny is very nice don't trust her don't trust it you're bad ghost ghost ghost he doesn't want her to realize how bad he is. how much he doesn't deserve. . .
the warm-soft moves, and then danny is sitting up, his bottom on something that feels kind of like his bed and surrounded by something he thinks might be legs, but he's not sure? sometimes mommy would sit criss-cross applesauce with him in her lap and this feels like it a little. but there's still blankets, still hugs, and danny snuggles tighter against ms. penny because what if she leaves?
he doesn't want to look but he doesn't want her to leave and his heart hurts and he's so confused. . .
"Danny? Honey, please look at me. I promise you're not in trouble."
liar liar liar liar it's a trick she's lying don't trust her more hurt hate you liar liar liar
danny does as he's told.
lip trembling, tummy in knots, eyes aching. he looks up and ms. penny looks back, smiles at him and it's very nice. except she looks tired and sad, red around her eyes, and danny hates it, hates that he's made her sad, all his fault and he knows it, so he looks down at her shirt instead, plays with the collar and sees that his skin is kind of green?
'm sorry. no sad, 'm sorry.
fingers through his hair again, very gentle, and ms. penny takes a big deep breath. it comes out in a whoosh! and danny tries not to flinch but it's very hard because loud noises are bad, just like he is, but he thinks ms. penny won't hurt him. she's been so nice to him.
"Danny? Sweetheart, I need you to look at me again, please."
she always asks please. ms. spelka would be very proud because she says that manners are very important.
he looks again.
the smile is gone, and ms. penny just looks serious instead, but not scary like mr. walker can be. where is mr. walker? don't know. oh well. a thumb wipes at his cheek and it's so warm that danny can't help but lean into it. he likes being warm, likes being safe, likes being here. please don't make him leave?
"Danny, baby, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"
listen?
danny can listen.
so he nods and ms. penny reaches up and holds his hands. they're very small next to hers, too skinny and too green and not-right. but she's very gentle, rubs her thumb over his knuckles and it's soft, a happy feeling.
"Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for."
but. . .
but he's a very bad little boy, a ghost, mommy said so, and he's made her sad so that means he's been bad and that means he has to say he's sorry, has to say something to make it right and he just doesn't understand. . .?
danny doesn't understand a lot of things now.
"You are not bad, Danny. There's nothing wrong with you. You're a wonderful little boy and some very bad things have happened to you. But we're going to make them better now, alright?"
she has very bright eyes and they're very serious and danny squeezes ms. penny's hands hard. make it better? how. . . how is she going to make it better? make him not be a bad little boy a ghost a liar evil? and danny's throat makes noise again, more sand and green-honey in his lungs and he says not bad? because how can he not be bad when mommy and daddy said so?
ms. penny looks so sad.
so very very sad.
and she squeezes back but it's gentle, like she doesn't want to hurt him. like she doesn't want to hurt him. danny's heart aches like his eyes and something leaks down his cheeks and he thinks he might be crying, except it doesn't feel right, not like normal-crying more like sticky-syrup-green-honey.
"No, baby. You're not bad. You're not bad at all."
danny feels his head ache and his throat burns and he says but 'm a ghost, mommy says so. and there's something different in ms. penny's eyes now and it's sharp, bright bright green that glows, that burns, that makes him shrink. except ms. penny shushes, kisses his forehead and rocks some more. the blankets are soft on his cheeks.
"Just because you're a ghost doesn't mean that you're bad, Danny. Your mommy was wrong to tell you that, just like it was wrong that they hurt you. Do you understand?"
mommy. . . mommy was wrong?
danny doesn't understand. because he's four-years-old and daddy said that mommy was always right. so how could mommy be wrong? how could he not be bad?! he doesn't understand, doesn't make sense, and everything
t
i
l
t
s
at the edges. he holds tighter to ms. penny's fingers until his knuckles go white, tries to make the words come out but they just won't, like they're glued to his mouth, and it makes him so mad. why is he so scared, why is he so awful, why is he so stupid?! he doesn't want to be bad but he doesn't want her to be angry, but his mouth just won't work and it's awful and. . .
"Danny, baby, it's okay. You don't have to understand just yet. But I want you to know that you're not bad, and no one here is going to hurt you. Alright?"
he looks up and ms. penny is smiling again, but it's sad, and he wants to curl up in a ball and disappear. go away. because he made her sad again, and he hates that, doesn't mean that. but he just can't seem to stop and doesn't know what he did wrong?
but she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead hard, ran her fingers through his hair.
danny pushed into it, felt warmer from the inside out. his fingers ached from holding too hard, and he tried to relax them. skin burning, bones all creaky, white-knuckles turning red. he let go. and ms. penny pulled him into a hug, let him bury against her throat and twist her hair in his fingers. she smells like raspberries and cream.
she smells like jazzy and danny wonders if jazzy is happy, if she misses him, if she thinks he's a good boy like ms. penny does.
he wishes. . .
"You're so good, Danny. Don't let anyone tell you different, alright?"
oh, he wishes he could believe, wishes that were true. and maybe it is? maybe he's a ghost and maybe he's bad, but maybe he's also a boy and he's also good? it's hard to know anymore. his head hurts. everything hurts.
his tummy growls loudly and danny squeaks, freezes, only ms. penny laughs and there's another kiss on the top of his head.
"Are you hungry, little man? It sounds like it."
hungry – yeah, he's very hungry. his tummy feels rumbly and grumbly and he wants food please? no more hungry please?
he moves and it scares him a little, makes him squeak and hold tight to ms. penny as she stands up. she laughs again, bounces him, and lets him wrap his legs around her. there's a hand on the back of his hand, an arm under his bottom. he feels safe like this. he feels safe.
"C'mon – I think Walker's making lunch. How does grilled cheese and tomato soup sound?"
danny remembers grilled cheese. crunchy and gooey and yummy. he doesn't remember tomato soup, though. but chicken noodle soup was good, salty and lots of chunks, so he thinks tomato will be good too. so he nods his head, plays with the ends of ms. penny's hair as she walks out of the strange room. he didn't even look around. too much new, too much strange, too much.
she kisses the top of his head again.
"You're going to be just fine, baby. I promise."
it's very quiet, a whisper, and danny smiles a little bit because quiet is good.
they walk into the kitchen and mr. walker is sitting at the table, face grumpy, and it smells very nice. his tummy rumbles.
"Hey, punk. Y'all ready to eat?"
yes, yes, yes!
he wants to eat and eat and eat until his tummy can't take any more! danny nods, a little too hard because it makes his head go spinny, and mr. walker laughs. ms. penny laughs, too, but very quietly. like how mommy would laugh when she didn't want him to know she was laughing. but that's okay.
this is okay.
really.
you're evil bad awful ghost never right gonna die I hate you
everything is just fine; ms. penny said so.
lies lies lies she doesn't love you don't believe her lies
he believes her.
~*O*~
Data Entry One
Date: 9/16/2003
Subject: Ghost Child
Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder
Subject has been deemed the "ghost child" due to its seemingly preferred physical form. Actual age cannot be determined until further tests have been conducted; however, it is likely that this ghost is newly formed, as its ectoplasm is remarkably unique in composition. Multiple tissue samples have been collected thus far. Tests concerning possible genetic structure, ectoplasmic markers, and possible power-sets are being ran by Jack Fenton.
Subject maintained its insistence that it was, in fact, one Daniel Fenton both pre- and post-capture, and continues to persist in its mimicry. Physical form for the ghost does resemble Daniel Fenton, a four-year-old child, and subject does seem to be able to mimic facial structure very well. However, coloration is still sub-human, as subject maintains white hair and green eyes, a key feature in many humanoid ghosts captured. However, the real Danny remains missing, and despite intense interrogation, subject refuses to disclose his location.
Subject also maintains the illusion of pain, which has been used multiple times by captured ghosts to trick scientists into a false sense of sympathy, allowing for escape. Ghosts are cunning, yes, but Jack and I have yet to positively identify any truth to this illusion. As a result, we will continue to conduct tests and interrogations until further notice.
Subject is being detained in Fenton Laboratories, under constant visual and audio monitoring systems maintained by Jack and myself.
Further information to be documented at a later date.
Data Entry Four
Date: 10/20/2003
Subject: Ghost Child
Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder
Subject seems to be in a declining state, despite constant infusions of fresh ectoplasm. It is unclear as to why this is, possibly due to the unusual genetic structure that the ghost seems to have. However, it has been determined that the ghost possesses unusually adept mimicry and camouflage capabilities, allowing it to copy vocal tones and speech patterns in a way that is. . . remarkably unsettling.
Further examinations of internal organs revealed a structure remarkably similar to that of a human, with fully functional cardiac, renal, and lymphatic systems. Respiratory structures are also identical to that of a human; however, it was noted that subject did not need to breathe as frequently or regularly as a human. Respiration rate under synthesized anesthetic maintained an average of eight breaths a minute. Cardiac systems also differed in that the "core" of the ghost maintained ectoplasm flow, not a heart. Visual documentation of the physical appearance has been added to this file.
Despite extensive interrogation and prolonged detainment, subject refuses to let go of its illusion and disclose the whereabouts of one Daniel Fenton. Even psychotropic drugs such as sodium thiopental and scopolamine do not dislodge the idea, and so it is calling into question the effectiveness of such drugs on ghost biology. The refusal to own up to being a ghost is not altogether abnormal, and so Jack and I have moved on to different tactics to try and both collect data and gather information.
It still maintains its false-pain act.
Looking the subject in the eyes has become nearly unbearable.
Its acting skills are remarkable, and for that, I want to break it apart.
Further information to be documented at a later date.
Data Entry Eight
Date: 11/02/2003
Subject: Ghost Child
Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder
Surgical enucleation of subject was a success. Due to absence of pain anesthetization was not required; however, numerous restraints were required to keep struggling to a minimum. Because of such aggressive physical movements, one eye was damaged during removal. But one intact eye is still a blessing, and studies have found remarkable similarities in structure, physiological composition, and pharmacological response. Still, there were anatomical discrepancies that must be noted.
Upon removal, it was noted that subject appeared to have a nictitating membrane, or third eyelid, which protected the eye from real-world particulate matter. The membrane was clear and tough, requiring intense physical pressure to cut through, even with fresh tools. It must also be noted that though it was thought previously that ghosts have heightened senses of sight, smell, and hearing, the overall physical structure of the eye itself lends little credence to the theory, as it does not possess extra rods or cones, and the cornea is near-identical to that of a human's.
It must be noted that this is following humanoid ghost theory, not that of bestial-type ghost theory, which are categorically different and must be treated as such.
Subject has become increasingly silent as interrogation continues, likely unable to maintain its vocal mimicry for such an extended period of time. In a way, I'm glad. I don't think I could handle listening to my son's voice come from a ghost for much longer. Either way, we still have not received Danny's location. It's beginning to get desperate, even with all the research advancements and progress we are making.
Jack and I are getting worried.
Data Entry Ten
Date: 11/12/2003
Subject: Ghost Child
Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder
Subject is showing definite signs of physical deterioration. Malnutrition symptoms such as brittle hair and nails, low energy, and constant shivering have been evident in the past several days. Subject can no longer answer questions in complete sentences. Likely due to the malnutrition affecting cognitive function.
Despite constant influxes of fresh ectoplasm and nutrients via intravenous drip, subject continues to deteriorate at a rapid pace.
He still hasn't told us where Danny is.
This has to stop now.
Data Entry Fourteen
Date: 11/21/2003
Subject: Ghost Child
Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder
Tests have revealed that subject has entered multi-organ failure, likely due to starvation, despite constant nutritional supplements and ectoplasm infusions. It seems as though subject termination is imminent.
While physical mimicry has been maintained throughout the period of the subject's detainment, all vocal and cognitive mimicry has stopped. Subject hasn't spoken in nearly two weeks. It maintains the illusion of pain; however, it accomplishes this only in small sounds – easily corrected, if one knows how – and facial expressions. This illusion will most likely be maintained until subject is fully deceased.
It is curious, however, that a ghost is capable of dying. Ghosts are thought to be physical, ectoplasmic manifestations of post-human consciousness, incapable of feeling and only able to mimic the emotions and characteristics of the person they once were. But there are ghosts who can take multiple forms. Ghosts with abilities the like of which any normal human has never seen.
So this begs the question: what happens to ghosts when they die?
He still hasn't told us where Danny is.
I hope ghosts have a hell.
Data Entry Final
Date: 12/02/2003
Subject: Ghost Child
Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder
Subject was noted to be deceased at 10:30 a.m. Cause of death determined to be multiple organ-failure brought on by malnutrition.
But I don't. . .
I don't understand.
It looks like Danny. Subject has been detained for approximately three months. Not once did it drop the physical mimicry of my son. We have never gathered his whereabouts either. But. . . after it died. . . it still looks like Danny. This shouldn't be possible.
How is this possible?!
There's no ectoplasm flow, no respiration, no discernible electrochemical activity in the brain. But its physical form hasn't changed. It should have reverted to its original form upon death. That has been scientifically proven time and again by Jack and myself, the subject Amorpho being one such example. But this ghost hasn't changed.
It's definitely dead.
But it still looks like my son, right down the birthmark on his left shoulder.
I just. . .
I want my baby back and I don't understand.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND!
(unintelligible shrieking, crashes, static)
Subject: Ghost Child
File Status: Concluded
A/N:
Okay, so don't hate me for how short this is, but this chapter was an absolute MOTHERFUCKER to try and push out. For some reason, none of the right words wanted to come to me for anything following Jazz's bit. I actually contemplated leaving it at just that bit, somewhat of a micro-chapter if you will. But then I decided to stop being a pussy and just powered on through. This is the final, really fucked-up result.
Also, a note on Jazz as a character.
It has been noted in a previous chapter that six-year-olds are capable of counting past twenty. And, normally, you would be correct in this observation. My little brother could already do basic multiplication tables and division at six. However, as smart as Jazz is, I always had this headcanon that she struggled with math like me. Because of this, I stumbled upon the idea that Jazz would suffer from dyscalculia, which is essentially dyslexia for math. I know, I know, I just keep throwing shit at these poor soft babies, but just bear with me okay?
Giving Jazz a learning disability, in my eyes, only makes her that much stronger of a character. Because she is smart and she is intuitive. . . she just can't tell you whether or not three is smaller than fifteen. It will play a role later, along with her developing friendship with Dash. Fucking fight me on this one, I dare you. Dash will not be an asshole in this. He will be my soft, precious little nugget who deserves the entire world. *
Also, in this AU, Jazz is in the class Danny would have been in. With the exception of Tucker, who will remain Danny's age. Sam doesn't exist. Because fuck that hoe is annoying to write.
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this, and feel free to leave me any comments or constructive criticism in the box below!