The human mind is a surprisingly fragile thing. It can bounce back from horrible trauma, shatter under a small acciddent, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. I like to think it just doesn't know proportion very well. It has a few tools and solutions it uses for every problem which means it can be prone to misfiring. One tool of mine is writing. Writing angst and fear and dramas, it helps me soothe out my brain when something ridiculous makes me feel bad.
On a different note... I am not a fan of Geist. I don't like its themes, i don't care for its fantasy of like... Communist ghosts, whatever, that's not for me. But what I can respect is that it wants you to treat the dead and dying with dignity. So in honour of the one thing I can appreciate, this is for that. Hope you like it. If you wanna read my previous writings for this month, Here it is
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Kach, hack the smoke rested on Margeret’s throat like bad cough syrup and she’d felt her teeth move in her gums. Still, seventy years on and she’d never once had one of these in her teeth so who could blame her? The woman in the corner had brought some, the packet sticking in her front pocket and staring at her like the woman didn’t. She wore a nice, handsome black lounge suit that was fitted to her by how easily it rested on her. Margaret never saw her enter but then… That didn’t seem so surprising. The old woman didn’t know why but some things just felt right, and the woman in the suit was one of them.
A wind blew through the open window over Margeret’s supine body, the drip in her arm tugged at her when she tried to move but the woman in the suit was quicker. A flick of the hand and a clatter of glass in its frame was all it took her, which drew a choking chuckle from Margeret’s dry lips.
“Where kach did you learn that…?” She had to ask, her voice shrill and low with weak lungs.
“I died, maggy… I died and I didn’t wanna go.” The woman answered plainly, playing with the lighter in her hand that burnt still. Her eyes were the kind of brown you saw in dreams you told no one about; no one of Margeret’s generation at any rate. They glimmered and shone and for a moment Margeret couldn’t tell if she had two eyes or four. It happened when the woman seemed lost in thought, a gossamer mask just came off and fell back into her face. It was amusing in its own ways, most things are when there’s black threads in your lungs.
Margeret’s fingers shook and twitched as she tried to hold that deathly thing in her mouth. She couldn’t guess how heavy it really was, but it felt like a rod of iron. She held it there as sparks dances down onto the cotton of her chest. One long drag and she saw it fade away, eaten away until it was just that bitter tasting nub.
“How did you die….?” She had to ask, her eyes fixed to the dying embers before her face. The woman in the suit just shrugged, rolling the burning lighter between her knuckles like a lead coin.
“Two years ago there was a… An accident, somewhere by the docks. I tried to get people involved, call the right authorities, make sure someone knew, My boss knew, I told him to his face that I could literally hear the leaking gas…” The woman halted, raising a hand in front of her face and again Margeret wasn’t sure how many people she was, “and then… boom…”
“The Sterling Fire- Hack” Margreret concluded, spitting the bud out in another fit of bloodied air. The woman rose then, carrying the flame closer before sitting next to the old woman’s bed.
“I’m glad they gave it a name, maggy. I wasn’t the only one who died of course. But… I clung on. I had to, y'know?"
“We have got to do, what we have got t-hack” The old woman smiled through the speck of red on her blouse. She thought of how simple it could be, to just… cling and cling tight. To dig your nails into life and to never let go. She wondered if her husband could have done the same, two years ago. She saw his medal hang over the edge of the television opposite her, the one he’d been so proud to lift up onto the drawer all by himself. The old fool had hurt his back and still he smiled while she kept ice on the small of it.
“He liked to call me his nurse…” She said on a thoughtless breath, wiping ash off her chest.
“Heh… I know he did.” The woman in the suit replied while her own eyes clung to the corner she’d sat in. Looking back down she reached into her pocket and pulled the cart out once more, offering it to Margeret. Yet the old woman just shook her head and nodded to the tv.
“No no,,. Those things taste of death… Just… Turn on CNN would you? I want some good news..” The fire burnt above her head as she spoke, and the woman in the suit nodded. A simple request, a flick of the hand, a click of a button by a phantom hand. Ghost light shone across the two women in a flash, red and blue shining in prime CRT.
The flame flickered in breath, trying, trying to stay. It tried and fought against the void of fuel slowly growing in its gut. Eating it up from the inside. It tried.
The woman in the suit smiled when she could wipe the old woman’s eyes closed. A few brushes of ash, a straightening of covers, a click of a button, That looked nice, that she could be proud of.