6 - Murdered

                                    

                                          
I figure that if, by some strange twist of fate, Sam was in fact a mere hallucination conjured up by a stressful move and a concussion, he would surely be gone by now, given the headache has stopped. But there he is, still. Slouched against the wall, he sends me an odd look caught somewhere between pity and frustration. A look that twists his features in a way vaguely reminiscent of eating something sour.
"Oh, so now you can see me again," he grumbles, crossing his arms. "You need to make up your mind."
I clear my throat and turn very pointedly back to my laptop, grappling with the impossibility that he's a ghost. And he's talking to me. And I can see him.
"And now you're ignoring me. Again. What is that?"
He appears over my shoulder once more, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as a wave of ice cascades over me. He reaches a vague hand over my shoulder and taps the screen.
Nothing happens, and he releases a disappointed sound.
I'm all too aware of my mum in the other room, and the plumber working beneath the stairs. Sound carries in this place, and if I start talking to thin air, they're going to think I need some serious help.
Maybe I do.
Unfortunately, Sam must take my silence as stoic ignorance, because he matches it with his own incessant stubbornness. It seems he's determined to see how close he can get before I snap and start talking to him.
My nerves are live wires at his close proximity; my mind is alight with mingling terror and pity that this isn't a hallucination, I haven't lost my mind, and I am in fact seeing the ghost of a dead boy. It's a lot to fathom.
So I switch my laptop on (Sam makes a little noise of surprise), open up a document, and type out: I can't talk to you when there's other people around, or they'll send me to a psych ward.
Then, very pointedly, I increase the size until it's a substantial banner, the glaring sort that cannot be ignored, and hold the laptop up to Sam's vague eye level.
As he reads, I look towards the archway, checking for witnesses to this strange conversation. Mum's busy cooking, lost to her own world, and I hope she doesn't turn around right now.
"Oh," Sam says, his voice soft. "Okay. Understood."
He must take this communication as an invitation, because he grins — which lights up his vague features — and he comes over to sit beside me, watching as I try to work on a thesis plan. It's impossible to focus, with his icy, insubstantial form pressed so close to mine, with his intrigue escaping in little 'ooh!'s and 'woah!'s when I change the font or make a passage bold.
When my mum calls me over, claiming dinner is ready, I all but leap from my seat, set the laptop down (I shut the lid in case Sam gets curious and deletes something, given I'm not sure whether he can manipulate the world around him but I am too paranoid to take chances), and escape into the kitchen.
Sam follows.
It's not a malicious sort of following, though. It's the sort that says 'I'm here, and I'm going to continue to be here until you acknowledge me'. Honestly, he reminds me a little of a starving dog, helplessly trailing after a person with food, hoping and begging for some attention. It's a little sad, to be honest, and I can't quite bring myself to look him in the eyes.
Not until I'm alone, at least (or not quite, I suppose).
For now, Sam has to stay smudgy and distant and vague and I have to chat with my mum as though there isn't a ghost trailing after me, lurking in my peripheral.