Kinda Dead
Flash fiction | Supernatural
Strangers dressed in black, engaging in hushed conversations, small groups of them here and there. Wandering from this room into that one, pretending to look for someone who isn't there. Discreetly glancing at watches and clocks, wondering if they've stayed long enough to be excused. Hoping their absence won't be noticed.
The front hallway is crowded with these people. Like they walked in and stopped, afraid to step inside lest they be unable to escape again. I squeeze my way past them into the entry room, where my family stands, gathered to receive our distinguished guests. Part of them, anyway. My mother, sobbing into a handkerchief. My father, tall and stately, his shoulders back and his lips pressed in a thin line. Even now, I feel the twinge of disappointment in his eyes.
I always disappointed them. Guess they won’t have to suffer any more now.
My brother sits glued to his phone, as he always does, in a corner by himself. I was hoping that out of everyone, he'd lift up his head and notice that I hadn't passed on yet, but I guess not. Should’ve known that he wouldn't be able to disconnect long enough to care.
My sister stands with a few of her friends. Unlike the adults in the entryway, all her teenage friends are quiet. They don't know what to say. Some of them try for the handful of stupid phrases that everyone says at times like this. There, there. It's okay. Everything happens for a reason. Bullshit, and she knows it. She always was smarter than me.
I used to hate her for it, but I don't any more. Just like I don't hate my brother for being so glued to his phone. I guess it doesn't really matter when you're not here to stay.
I turn away from the small gathering of friends, and nearly bump into another stranger dressed in black. I don't know half these people, much less care that they turned up at my funeral. Now they're milling about, pretending to notice that I'm gone, when in reality it's been years since some of them spoke to me. They don't care that I took my dog, Margo, for a walk and literally got hit by a bus. They don't care about how my skull cracked when I hit the ground, blood spilling out like that classical painting we studied in school. And they don't care that both my parents had to identify me, because the bus mangled me enough that they couldn't match me to my school ID. These people don't care. They're just here to keep up appearances.
I slip out into the back yard for a breath of fresh air. Our swing set is there, a leftover relic from childhood, long outgrown and rarely used. To my surprise, there's someone sitting on one of the swings, barely moving back and forth. My cousin, Charlotte, who I used to babysit sometimes. I never thought she liked me - probably thought I was weird, with my one tattoo and a pit bull named Margo - but today, she's sniffling as she sits and digs her shoes into the dirt. She's holding Snuff, my parents' tiny white dog, clinging to it as she sways back and forth. Every now and then a small tear leaks down her face, and it's far more believable than everything inside the house.
"I miss you," she whispers, burying her head in Snuff's head. He whuffs a few times, impatient to get down, but she clings tighter and goes on. "I know you probably hate me, but I really liked you. Why'd you have to go?"
My eyebrows raise in surprise. It seems like she's actually sad for me. Those adults inside - they know how to pretend. They could go all day believing that their sadness matters. But kids, they don't know any different. Charlotte's not pretending. She's grieving.
"Mommy said-" She pauses to hiccup. "Mommy said I should tell you what I liked about you. She said I was supposed to say it at- at- at the place, but I didn't. I don't like it there. I don't think you should be there, either."
The gravesite. They were all there, earlier today. Men with black umbrellas and women clutching kleenexes, watching my mother toss dirt on my coffin and then bury her head in my father's shoulder and cry. Watching as my father didn't cry at all. I didn’t even didn't realize Charlotte was there.
"But I guess I could tell you now, if you want. Mommy said you'd be able to hear me."
Maybe Mommy was smarter than I thought. I sit down on the grass, crossing my nonexistent legs, and lean forward to listen.
"Remember one time, when Mommy and Daddy were out of town, you came over and watched the scary movie with me? I know you didn't want to, I heard Mommy talking on the phone to Daddy and she said she had to convince you, but you came and we made popcorn. It really scared me, but you gave me a hug and said everything would be okay, that the scary clown wasn't going to get me. And then we read a book and I felt better."
That's right. I'd forgotten about that. It seemed so stupid at the time, reading a six-year-old girl a book to take her mind off the movie, but she passed out right after the first chapter. I didn't think anything else of it.
"And you came to my party, on my birthday. It was just you and me and daddy, and we had a tea party. I could tell you didn't like it, but we had cake and ice cream. I told Daddy I wanted chocolate ice cream, 'cause you said that was your favorite. I guess I liked it, too."
Ugh, the tea party. I scrub my eye with the back of my hand. Sitting in a little pink plastic chair, pretending to enjoy myself. I was supposed to go offroading that day with one of my friends, but Charlotte's big birthday party got put on hold when she got sick. Then my so-called buddy bailed on me, so I dragged myself to her house instead. I had no idea she'd remember that.
"I... I guess..." She hiccups again, then buries her face in Snuff's fur. The poor dog yips, then wiggles out of her arms and dashes, making a break for the house before she could scoop him back up again. She doesn't even try to go after him, just wipes her nose on her sleeve and stares at the dirt at her feet. "I miss you. I asked Mommy when you'd come back, and she said you went to heaven."
I shake my head. If there is a heaven, I'm not there yet.
"I hope it's nice there. Mommy said you like video games, so I... I brought you one." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small cartridge, perfect for a handheld device. "It's Pretty Princess Puppy. It's my favorite one."
I can feel the yank on my heartstrings as I start tearing up. I didn't even know I could cry as a ghost, but this girl is something else.
"I don't know how to give it to you, 'cause I don't want to go back to the place. I guess I'll leave it here. I hope you find it." She reaches down, nestling it into the dirt under the swing. "I hope you like it. Don't delete my save file, please. I worked really hard on that. You can play it if you want to, though."
Oh my god. So precious. She’s such a good kid. How did I not notice?
Charlotte stands to her feet and dusted off her hands, wiping them on her skirt. "I have to go to the bathroom. I hope you have fun, Chris." Then she turned away and walked into the house, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve again on the way.
I sit outside for a long time, staring at the little grey video game cartridge under the swing. I'm still there when it starts to rain, even though I can't feel it. I guess that's what happens when you're dead.
Hello, dear reader!
We almost had a hiccup today - I thought we were due for another Lost Circus update, but the gods of fiction intervened and you’ll have to wait another week. Sorry, but not really, because it still needs editing. Gotta make it prettier for y’all.
We made it to February! Not that anybody’s been counting (me), but we’re only a month away from this newsletter’s 1-year anniversary. WHEEEEEE!
I know it’s only a year, but that’s a year of weekly stories and blog posts in a world where things tend to fizzle out after five minutes. Not to mention the planning and behind-the-scenes stuff, establishing writing time, etc.
But thanks to Substack - and all of you! - it’s still going! Writing every week has improved my storytelling a lot, and thanks for your patience as I keep learning. It was always my goal to 1) improve as a storyteller, and 2) share some writing lessons I’ve learned, and so far, I’ve been able to do both of those things.
Thank you for being part of the journey! I, the writer, salute you.
See you next week!
<3 Olivia
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