Chapter 25: Who
Weeks passed. June didn't come back.
The director was the only one who'd tell Vlad anything on the matter; the new head nurse, the doctors, they would all tell him not to worry and nothing more – and Bianco didn't come by often.
In the end, all Vlad knew was that June was getting better – slowly. The ectoplasmic burn on her arm took longer to heal than it was supposed to, as if the his ectoplasm that had caused it was corrupted with something and therefore more irritant to humans. The director thought it may be dangerous for June to keep working in an environment where she might be in contact with more ectoplasm, pure or not.
pink in his blood in his vomit in his sight
bright toxic pink where he would have expected glowing neon green
Vlad, himself, was getting better – once again.
The bouts of fever diminished, he never lost his own pulse anymore even if his heart rate was often too slow for someone healthy, and he didn't flatline once in the next two months. He generally felt tired, but not unwell.
Except for the blood vomiting.
threads of pink pulsating dangerously in the stains
That didn't stop. Vlad did spend a lot of time in the bathroom, throwing up worrying amounts of blood day after day – he wouldn't look himself in the mirror because of the blue-skinned aberration the corpse that stood on two feet the ghost refusing to acknowledge its own death, not after the time he'd accidentally glimpsed himself with bloodied teeth, the left canine still as abnormal and long and sharp as it had been since...
Since.
He was able to focus much better, now – less often seriously ill, his head clearer – and that allowed him to truly concentrate on the business books June had ordered for him, after they'd talked of his studies and he'd made a deal with the University of Wisconsin-Madison to continue his education through correspondence. Before... Before, Vlad had started looking into those, but he hadn't been able to focus long enough to not only read the textbooks and other references, but also start working on them.
He needed to do something with himself – June was right, she'd said the same thing and she was right and she wasn't here anymore but she was still right – after the clinic.
if there was an after
With how things were going – his parents, the token fees they paid Director Bianco and his organization to take care of him – Vlad shouldn't be in debt by then – miraculous enough as it was – but he also wouldn't have much left to his name, and he refused to be even more of a burden on his parents.
Vlad wasn't even certain that there wouldn't be lasting sequelae to whatever this this sham of a disease this agony hidden and lying as it masqueraded as a slow recovery was, that he'd be able to function out in the world, let alone keep a job. What if he was indeed done with heart attacks, but he kept throwing up blood at random intervals? If he, say, started leaking ectoplasm on bad days, would his employer accept "I was feeling dead yesterday, that's why I was absent" as a viable excuse?
Of course they wouldn't.
some days he'd rather his body forgo the pretending and simply acknowledge the truth
dead people didn't have to worry about finances
Vlad started dropping things, too.
It wasn't the first time he'd fall over nothing, as if the material world just ceased to be for an instant – and then, vlam, on the floor with a bloody nose – but he didn't remember objects quite slipping through his grip before. These days, he could be holding a textbook or a notepad, and without even opening his hands, it'd fall on his lap.
As if Vlad wasn't really here, holding it up.
like a ghost who thought itself still tangible
That would be a problem if it didn't get better, if he had to find a job, if anything he picked up was potentially going to end up on the floor. It would mean he couldn't do anything physical, nothing that involved breakable tools or products... It meant finding a job for which Vlad wouldn't be expected to handle anything. Talking, yes, maybe taking notes because computers kept themselves up and didn't rely on their user, and it wasn't the end of the world if a pen rolled out of his hand.
Vlad could forget anything that involved real engineering, or at least past the blueprints and theory. Anything that involved science and experimenting.
if
if Maddie and Jack "banzai!" Jack's fault
if Maddie and Jack still cared and wrote and didn't just disappear
if they'd still wanted to work with him then maybe
he would be able to participate they could be his hands should his be untrustworthy they could elaborate every new invention together they could like they'd discussed even if not quite they could make it work
but Jack hated ghosts just as much as he loved them
Jack a flash of green pain hurts Jack's entire family legacy was built on ghost hunting his disdain for the intents of the dead wasn't to be swayed ghosts were at the very least uncaring of the danger they posed to the living
and look at Vlad
dead despite the lies and already hurting people
In other words, Vlad's desires and hopes for a career meant nothing, now. If – and it was still a big "if" – he ever managed to get his life back on track, he'd have to find something entirely different to dedicate himself to. He'd painstakingly paved his life all the way to university and a physics major to study a field that was yet widely unrecognized in the hopes of furthering the understanding of life and death, and...
And now, there was nothing left of it – except death itself.
The only two people who'd actually taken him seriously – even the professor in charge of their project had been curious but disbelieving – were nowhere to be seen.
Jack "banzai!" had done pain can't breathe help this to him Jack's fault and there was nothing no hope no solution Vlad could do except ask no one he was alone and the ones who were there with him didn't know didn't care where the one who had destroyed a flash of green swirling into death burns his life the little there was left of it was now.
Because Jack and Maddie but Maddie hadn't been the one to kill him Maddie had tried to help had never come to see him at the hospital, had not written, had done nothing.
And now Vlad was dropping books through his very fingers.
Those were back to normal, too. Normal pale flesh, normal blood pressure, normal muscles. No hint of necrosis, no greying skin, no red undertones, no dead nails.
And yet, objects kept escaping his grasp.
Vlad had nicked his neck with the razor blade the other morning – he couldn't keep his hold on that either. Back when his fingers were still unresponsive and rotting a corpse's hands for a ghost's broken pretense, or when they would tremble, June was the one to shave him.
she wasn't here anymore and it was his fault
Vlad couldn't seem to remember the name of the new head nurse.
No one would help.