FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #8

 

'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' she told me the first time we met. That is, the first time we met after her death, when she was a spirit.

My name's Serena Harris.  I’m twenty-three years old as of yesterday.  I’m a gal with big brown eyes and platinum blond hair, which I currently wear in an awesome, sculpted, tri-color Mohawk.  I have a few dozen piercings on my body and about forty-seven tattoos.  I make my living in the art field.  Currently, I design one-of-a-kind tattoos for customers of Ernie’s Tattoo Palace, a little shop near the docks.  I get paid in tattoos, piercings, and, sometimes, in cash.  I also produce a line of  t-shirt designs for a boutique called Bjork's.  I make enough to afford the cost of living in a one-room efficiency apartment on Riley Avenue plus the outlay for art supplies.

Last night, I partied hard with my friends, Nate and Kelly. We celebrated my birthday at Rum Cakes, a bar over on Poole Avenue.  We closed the place, I think.  I don’t remember much after about 11:30.  Got waaay too drunk.  I woke up on the floor of my apartment.  Someone had helped me home and had dragged me enough through the front door so it would close.  

When I woke up. I didn’t know what day it was, and I had a bastard of a headache.  I stood up slowly, did a wobbly walk to the bathroom and gazed into the mirror.  My reflection appeared to be totally, severly wasted--red, puffy eyes, Mohawk askew, and there was an evil bad taste in my mouth.  Ick!  I showered, brushed my teeth, dressed, and then restyled my Hawk.  Somewhat refreshed, I headed towards the kitchenette where I keep the aspirin. My head still hurt fierce bad.  

I downed three aspirin and then headed towards the daybed, the only piece of furniture I own.  I sat down, grabbed the remote, and was just about to put my feet up and turn on the television when I saw her.

I screamed--a real ear piercer of a scream!  I jumped up and ran to the bathroom slamming and locking the door behind me!  My heart raced erratically!  My legs shook so much that I had to sit on the toilet or I would have collapsed in a quivering heap on the floor!  I took a couple of deep, calming breathes, realized where I was, and then cursed my stupidity!  I should have run out the front door, not locked myself in the bathroom! Now, I was trapped!

She wafted through the door, an eerie, smoky mist.  If I hadn’t been so terrified, it would have been really rad to observe.  Instead of watching her ooze through the door, I covered my eyes like a child and wailed.  I let the terror come out any way it wanted to.  Shrieking and begging God to save me seemed the best way to vent.

“OH SHUT UP!”  She yelled at me.  “I’m the one who should be doing a banshee, not you!”

I stopped shrieking, shocked into total silence!  Her words echoed loud against the grungy bathroom walls.  My brain kicked in, trying to make sense of what was happening!   I knew that voice!  I uncovered my eyes and looked up.

“Debbie?” I gasped. 

“Yeah, Debbie.” She replied. 

“But, you’re dead!” I said.

“Fuckin  A, I’m dead!” She replied.  “But, as you can see, my spirit isn’t,” she added smugly, twirling around so I could get a full view of her.

“You look good!” I told her. 

She did look good, although a little transparent.  Her husband, Gary, had the mortician dress her earthly remains in her favorite Goth outfit, a long black silk dress with a leather corset that had great brass work and her favorite pair of black Bat Matt witch shoes.  Her long black hair flowed loose and was parted in the middle.  Her foundation was a pale white, her lipstick, blood red.  Her eye makeup was awesome--eggplant purple eye shadow, black mascara, and thick black eyeliner.  She looked like a smokin’ Vampira.

“Yeah, I’m luckier than some of the haunts I’ve met since I died,” Debbie said, looking in the mirror over the sink and brushing her ghostly hair behind her ears.  “Some of the haunts are stuck in the form they died in.  Gets pretty yuck to look at, but you get used to it.”

“Wow!” I said.  “You’re really here in my bathroom, talking to me!” 

Now that I was over being terrified, I was elated!  I hoped I wasn’t on some sort of alcohol inspired delusion.  I had quit using party drugs months ago.  Using drugs had weirded me out and interfered with my creative energy. 

“I need your help,” Debbie said.  

I paused and thought for a moment.  I wondered if I had a choice about helping her.  Do spirits of the dead allow you decide whether or not you will help them?  I figured she probably wanted me to forward a message to a living relative for her.

“You want me to phone Gary and give him a message from the grave?” I asked.  I could agree to perform that sort of favor.  Easing a grieving heart would be a good deed.  You get maximum positive karma for doing stuff like that.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” she said.  “Could get you into trouble.”

“With whom?” I asked.

“The haunts with issues would drive you nuts if they thought you would contact the living for them.  Lots of them have unfinished business with the living.  They’re always looking for a conduit that’s willing to intercede between the living and the dead.  They’d badger you night and day.  You wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh,” I said. Debbie was right about that.  Constant badgering from ghosts with issues would tend to become a tedious business.  Not to mention it would be a constant freak out.

“What sort of help were you thinking of?” I asked.

“Revenge.”  Debbie said bitterly.  “I need to be revenged.”

“Ah geeze,” I muttered. This was exactly the reason I didn’t want to commit to helping her out until I knew what she wanted. Seeking revenge is a negative karma activity, the kind of activity that could get you into serious trouble.

“I was murdered.”  Debbie told me.

That shocked me!  I thought she’d died accidently from a fall down a flight of stairs.

“By who?” I gasped.

“My bastard husband, Gary.” Debbie said.  And since you were my best friend in life,” she continued, “I figured you’d want to be the one to revenge me.”

“Uhhh, what about your parents or your brother?” I asked.  “They’re like blood kin.  Wouldn’t they be a better choice?”

“Hardly,” Debbie groused.  “They buried my body and went on with their lives.  None of them want to see me in spirit.  I tried and tried to make them see or hear me, but it doesn’t work with them.  They just react like they’re having some kind of happy memory of me when I was alive.  They just pause and laugh it off or have a good cleansing cry.  It’s so damn frustrating!” 

“I’ll bet.” I said.

“So, will you help me?” Debbie asked.

I thought for a moment.  What did helping Debbie exact revenge on Gary Byrd actually mean in real life terms?  I mean, she was dead, and any legal ramifications from revenging herself such as being arrested, tried, and sent to prison were a zero.  I, on the other hand, was alive. The odds were against me for avoiding prosecution for malicious acts.

What exactly would you need me to do?” I asked. 

No harm in finding out what she wanted me to do, I thought.  I could always say no.

“I want him to confess to what he did.”  Debbie said.

I thought for a moment.  The Gary Byrd I knew was stubborn.  He was a totally self-absorbed Neanderthal, spoiled by his parents, and unwilling to work to support himself.  An aspiring actor waiting for his big break, he had depended on Debbie’s job to pay all their expenses while he followed his dream.  I'd heard that his sympathetic friends and family were now paying his rent and utilities so that he could continue to devote all his time to going to casting calls and do whatever it is unknown actors do until they get discovered.

“Why would he confess?” I asked. 

“He won’t want to.”  Debbie said, wafting over to the bathtub and sitting on the edge of the tub eye-to-eye with me.  “We’ll have to make him confess.”  

I couldn’t keep myself from reaching out a hand to touch Debbie.  My hand skimmed right through her body.  I felt a noticeable chill as I did so.  It wasn’t scary, just odd.  "Totally bizarrely cool!" I muttered.

“How are we supposed to make him confess?”  I asked. 

“We’re going to antagonize him until he goes crazy with guilt!” Debbie replied.”

“I’m not into harassing others into insanity,” I told her.  “It’s mean to bully folks.”

“It’s meaner to kill them.” Debbie said.

“Touché,” I nodded. “So, why did he kill you?”

“Insurance.”  Debbie sighed.  “A quarter of a million dollars not to mention an additional fifty thousand dollars from a policy I had from my job.  He’s using my death benefits to pay for acting classes!"

“Geeze!” I said.  “What a bastard!”

“Yeah,” Debbie replied sadly.  “He's a total psychopath.  He married me as an investment strategy.   He told me everything right before he dropkicked me down the stairs.  He never loved me.  He called me a Goth freak and told me all my friends were freaks and the world was better off with one less freakazoid.”

“Bummer.” I said.  I was used to being considered a freakazoid.  As an avant guarde artist, I relished the label.

Gary was a pretty good actor, though.  I bought hook line and sinker his portrayal of grief.  Everyone did.  No one suspected foul play.  They all bought his sorrow act to the point of paying his rent and buying his groceries. 

“So, if I was to help you out, what would you need me to do?” I asked.

“I want to send him a letter by mail.”

“What kind of letter?”

“Accusatory.” Debbie explained.  “Tell him right on the first line that he murdered me! I’ll tell you exactly what he said before he did it and all the little details only he would know.  That will scare him shitless!”

“Am I supposed to sign my name to this letter?”

“No.  You sign my name to it. And you tell him I will haunt him for the rest of his life if he doesn’t confess.”

“I can do that,” I said. 

“I’ll need to use my laptop,” I muttered, standing up and heading towards the main room.  “My handwriting is scary bad and you’ll want him to be able to read your words.”

Debbie followed me to the daybed, which also serves as my office.  I reached under it, got my laptop out, and scrootched onto the daybed, my back resting against the side rail.  I sat the computer on my lap.  Debbie wafted into a similar position against the opposite rail.  I typed while she dictated.  When we completed the letter, I printed it out along with an envelope addressed to Gary’s residence.

“Let’s go mail it,” I said. 

I shrugged into a jacket, grabbed my house keys, and scurried downstairs to the mailbox located outside of my apartment building.  Debbie floated silently beside me.  After we accomplished our mission, we returned to my place.  We spent the rest of the day talking over what had gone on in our lives since her death fifteen months ago.

It took three days for the letter to reach Gary.  Debbie spent the time going from my place to Gary’s place. While she was at Gary’s, she used her sprit power to perform little ghostly annoyances like knocking stuff off shelves and tables and turning  the thermostat down to near freezing.  I didn’t see the point in her behavior.  Gary ignored it all, probably figuring he had absentmindedly done it himself. 

Debbie reported back to me what occurred the day the letter arrived.

Gary returned home in a jubilant mood.  He bounded into his apartment, slammed the door shut, and yelled “WAHOOO!” He flung his mail on the coffee table.  Debbie floated over to the table.  Our letter was on top of the pile.  Gary grabbed his cell phone and dialed his parents, informing them that an advertising company had hired him for a television commercial.  His first paying acting gig!

After ending the phone call, Gary looked at his mail.  He opened our letter, scanned it, then turned fiery red.  Debbie watched as he read out loud the words she had dictated to me, his voice halting and growing hoarse as his brain comprehended their meaning.  He crumpled the letter into a wad in his fist and stood up, cursing.  He looked at the envelope seeking a return address.  There was none.  He paced fretfully, alternately cursing and almost crying with rage; or, maybe, it was fear.  He punched a hole in the wall.  He shredded the letter then bolted out the front door.

Debbie wafted after him alternately laughing at and cursing him.  Gary walked six blocks to a bar and ordered vodka straight up. His hands were shaking and Debbie took advantage, using her spirit power to tip the tumbler so that the vodka spilled down the front of his shirt and the tumbler flew out of his hand, crashing onto the bar. 

“Fucking bitch, Debbie!” Gary cursed, sopping up the mess. Bar patrons stared at him like he was crazy.  The bartender glared at him.  Gary left the bar and hurried home.  His pace was quick.  Debbie wafted along beside him, mocking him, willing him to see her spirit self, but to no avail.  His self-absorbed mind refused to see her.  No matter. He was beginning to believe he was being haunted.  That was enough for now.

“Someone knows,” Gary muttered as he walked, trying to rationalize the letter’s contents. “No, they don’t know,” he corrected himself.  “No one saw anything.  Someone knows I got a payoff stashed in the bank.  That’s it!  They’re just guessing about the rest.  Can’t prove it.  Can’t prove a thing!”

“Don’t be so sure about that, you prick!”  Debbie yelled into his ear.

Gary returned to his apartment, slammed and locked the door, grabbed up the shredded letter and burnt it in the kitchen sink.  He looked at his watch.

“Got to be on set early,” he muttered.  “Need a good night’s sleep.” He opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of sleeping pills and swallowed two.  He went to the bedroom, undressed, and set his alarm clock for five a.m. He was unconscious within fifteen minutes.  Nothing Debbie did could rouse him.

“Debbie exhausted her spirit power by trashing his place; knocking things off tables, pushing his house keys under the sofa, and unplugging his alarm clock.

“You look tired,” I told her when she returned to my place.

“I am,” she said.  “Haunting takes a lot out of me.”

“Did he confess?” I asked.

“No,” she grumped, joining me on the daybed.  I was under the covers watching Food Network.

“I can’t believe how thick he is,” Debbie said.  “I wish I had enough spirit power to physically shove him in front of a garbage truck!”

“Righteous ending,” I commented. 

“The only way I can kill him is to scare him to death.” Debbie sighed.  “He refuses to see my spirit self and he’s rationalizing the letter and doesn’t seem to notice that I keep knocking things over.  Well, that may change tomorrow morning, she smirked.”

“What did you do? I asked

“Just a few things to make him late for a very important date!” Debbie giggled. 

I smiled.  My best friend was back in my life in spirit form.  She hadn’t changed at all, excepting she had no body.  Her soul was awesome! It was like old times, only better.

“So, tell me all about your day.”

Debbie wafted under the covers.  Cold, ghostly feet tangled with my warm, alive feet.

“Keep your cold feet off me,” I shrieked.  

I turned off the television and told her about my workday and my plans for tomorrow.  When I woke up the following morning, she was gone.

I saw her next at Rum Cakes.  I was with Nate and Kelly, having an after work beer and watching CNN news on the big screen.  She wafted into our booth and sat across from me, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“Ewww did you feel that chill,” Kelly asked rubbing goose fleshed arms.

“Nope,” I lied. 

“Shush, I want to hear this.”  Nate said peering at the big screen.

Anderson Cooper was reporting about this morning’s bizarre death in New York City of an aspiring young actor named Gary Byrd who had plummeted off a fifty-story building while shooting a deodorant commercial.

“Shit,” Nate said turning to look at us.  “Gary’s dead!”

“Oh my god!”  Kelly said beginning to cry.

“Wow!” I said, gulping down the rest of my beer.

Debbie smiled maliciously.

Nate and Kelly dropped me off on their way home.  We were all somber now that we had experienced, once again, how quickly and tragically a young life could end.   Once inside my place, I kicked off my shoes and settled onto the daybed, my back resting against a side rail. 

Debbie wafted onto the bed, and sat opposite me.

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“It was rad!" Debbie said excitedly.  "Total accident!  I didn’t do anything to cause it!  He was standing on the ledge waiting for someone to yell 'action'  and a crane with a big microphone came lose and hit him right in the nuts!  He yelled 'shit', fell sideways, and then rolled off the ledge!"

“Karma!” I gasped.

“Yeah.”  Debbie agreed. “Deadly Karma!”

“Well, you got your revenge, I smiled.

“Most definitely,” she sighed contentedly.

“What are you going to do the rest of your afterlife?” I asked

“Hang out with you.”

“Excellent!.” I said.

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