mirror my malady

Staring at him for more than ten seconds is physically painful. “Come here. I can– Try something. Just stay still and close your eyes.” She’s already shifting in her seat, vaguely wishing for the ceiling to collapse in on itself. “What?”

He sits in front of her on his knees, eyes shut and head tilted up towards her. Until her voice breaks the silence and he opens his eyes again. “I -- had ten dollars, in the wallet that was taken. But I’d just gotten a ring. For you. I want you to have it still.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do or feel.”

“What did I do to piss you off? Really, I’d like to know.”

kiwikiwiandkiwi

#teddy muse: ben wyatt

Her jaw tightens. She feels physically ill. “Denied.”

“You don’t get to be mad at me. I didn’t choose this.”

She’s all teared out. At this point she’s just angry. Acceptance had been hard and cold and lonely but she’d gotten there and he’s fucking haunting her now. This is such bullshit. “This isn’t heaven, Theodore. It’s far from it.”

Why am I here?! He wants to shout, he wants to cry, but he wants to touch her most of all. “My chest hurts.” It’s almost all he can think about. “I’m not... in heaven, and my chest -- is on fire.” She’d seen ghosts for how long, their entire relationship? Did those she love just... haunt her forever? Did she keep him there? He had so many questions, but none would be answered. “There was a ring.”

How do you be a person anymore. “Uh... Peace offering.” Pudding, eight pack.

#tuneysalad #HE LIVES

acidlyboring

#toody

“I know you’re dead. I. Know.” She’s been aware, been in pain, gone through all seven fucking stages, for the past three weeks. And yet– Here he is. Not in the afterlife, like he should be. It’s a punch to the chest but she has only split seconds to recover. “I’ve kinda done this all my life. Ghosts, and whatever. My problem here is you. You shouldn’t be one.”

It’s too much all at once. He isn’t sure if he can pass out, but he sure feels like he might. Just pain -- in his chest, like an elephant is sitting on him. He’s wearing what he died in, the same cable sweater, the same pants. “Petunia,” His voice is light, sad. He wants to be there, but alive. He wants so much more time. “I -- I lived good. I loved God, I -- I loved you! I believe in heaven, and I’m here.”