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THE GIRL AND THE GHOST

THE GHOST KNEW his master was about to die, and he wasn’t exactly unhappy about it. He knew that sounded bad. You’d think, after all those years together, that even he might have felt a twinge of sadness about the whole situation. But it’s hard to feel sorry for someone when: a) you’re a ghost, and everyone knows ghosts don’t have hearts, and b) that someone made her living out of forcing you to make other people miserable. He stared at her now as she lay on the narrow bed, gray and gaunt in the light of the full moon, her breath rasping and shallow. Watching her teeter slowly toward the end was a bit like watching a grape slowly become a raisin: the years had sucked the life and vitality out of her until she was nothing but a wrinkled shell of her former self. “Well,” she wheezed, squinting at him. Well, he said. “One more for the road, eh?” she said, nodding to the full moon out the window. And she grimaced as she offered him the ring finger of her right hand, as she had done so many times before. The ghost nodded. It seemed frivolous, but after all, he still needed to eat, whether or not his master lay dying. As he bent his head over the wrinkled hand, his sharp little teeth pricking the skin worn and calloused from time and use, the witch let out a sharp breath. Her blood used to be rich and strong and so thick with her magic that the ghost could get himself drunk on it, if he wasn’t careful. Now all he tasted was the stale tang of age, the sour notesthat came with impending death, and a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t quite place. Regret, perhaps. It was the regret that was hardest to swallow. The ghost drank nothing more than he had to, finishing quickly and sealing the tiny pinpricks of his teeth on her skin with spit. It is done, he told her, the words familiar as a favorite song, the ritual as comforting as a warm blanket. And I am bound to you, until the end. The witch patted his horned head gently. Her touch surprised him —she had never been particularly affectionate. “Well,” she said, her voice nothing more than a sigh. “The end is now.” And she turned her head to the window, where the sun was just rising over the cusp of the world, and died.

Ayomide_kusimo · Urban
Not enough ratings
35 Chs

chapter 22

Girl

SURAYALAYINher bed after the pawang had left and thought for a

long, long time. She thought about the smell, and the nightmares,

and of Jing's pale face and purple bruises. She thought about

whispered conversations under the covers, and warm hugs at

bedtime, and first friendships, and true friendships. She thought

about that strange gleam in the pawang's eyes, the shiver of fear

that hadrun a cold finger down her spine when he spoke. And most

of all, she thought about forever, a word that got colder and harder

and more unforgiving the longer it sat in her head.

The shadows were long by the time she sat up. Sweat made her

long hair stick to the back of her neck, and she gathered it

impatiently up into a sloppy ponytail.

"Pink," she whispered.

It was the first time she'd said his name in days, and it tasted

strange and bittersweet and familiar on her tongue.

The storm was dying out now, and the wind had lost most of its

ferocity; the only answer was its whimpers outside her window.

"Pink," she said again. This time her voice was clearer, surer.

The shadows in the corners of the room started to grow larger

and darker, as if they were gathering themselves together.

"I know you're here, Pink," Suraya said. "You're always here.

Come out and talk to me."

The shadows in the corners flickered for a second, the way they

do when a breeze plays with a candle flame.

Then hewas there, not as his true form, but as a grasshopper on

her windowsill.Behind him, the sky was lit up with the fiery flames of

sunset, and the shadow he cast was huge and vaguely sinister.

"Hello, Pink."

He didn't speak, so she did instead. "You're probably wondering

why I called you."

"I assume it was to say your final goodbye," he said, and she

winced at the unfamiliar harshness in his voice.

"It wasn't my idea," she said.

"Yet I missed the bit where you launched a passionate protest,"

he snapped. "Or perhaps it was smothered by all the betrayal in the

air."

"Betrayal?" She stared at him, mouth agape, eyes filling with

furious tears. "You're the one who's been spending all your time

trying to hurt my friend! Trying to hurt me!"

Beneath her feet, she felt a shudder. The room began to tremble,

the picture frames clattering slightly against the walls upon which

they were hung, the art supplies on her desk clicking and clacking

against each other with every movement.

When he spoke again, Pink's voice was a deep rumble. "You

dropped me as soon as you had another human to be your

companion! Me, who has been by your side since you were barely

old enough to walk! Me, whohas been with you through everything!

Who has . . . who has loved you through everything!" Thelast words

flew out of his mouth in a roar that shook the room so hard that

Suraya grabbed onto her bedstead, sure she was about to be sent

flying across the room. Pens and pencils and books and papers fell

or fluttered to the ground. The sound was deafening.

Pink paused to catch his breath, panting slightly.

On her bed, Suraya sobbed quietly, her face buried in her hands.

With every heave of her little chest, Pink thought his heart would

break—if he had one, that is.

Look at me, he told her.

It took a while for her to obey. When she did, the fear in her eyes

made him tremble.

She'd never looked at him like that before.

Pink letout a long, slow sigh, as if he was releasing all the anger

from his little body. Then he hopped onto the bed beside her and laid

a gentle arm against her leg.

I am sorry,he whispered.Idid not mean to hurt you. I did not like

to do it. But my anger billowed and swelled and grew inside me, and,

like the wild thing it is, it lashed out when it was wounded. I could not

stop it.

"Did you enjoy it?"

He looked down at his feet. He could not help feeling ashamed of

himself. I did.

She nodded. "It felt like you did." There was no note of blame or

anger in her voice, just the tiny tremble of leftover tears.

I will not do it anymore, he told her. Or at least . . . I will try not to.

"It's okay," shesaid. "It's in your nature. It's hard to go against

what you were meant to be."

I was meant to be your friend. His voice was sad.

"You will always be my friend, Pink."

He looked at her intently. Then why does this soundlike a

goodbye?

"It isn't. Not yet." Suraya rubbed the tears from her face and sat

up, scooping Pink up in her palm and bringing him close to her.

"Listen, Pink. In five days, at the full moon, they're going to make you

go away forever, and they won't do it gently, I know it. I could see it

in that man's eyes."

Child.He leaned close and nuzzled her cheek. Child, what can

you do in the face of your elders? How can you stop them? You are

wise, but still so young.

He watched her jaw set, that spark of determination light in her

eyes, and he knew she would not listen.

"Fortune favors the bold," she reminded him.

He had to smile.

All right, he said. What do we do?