12 Days Before Christmas || ✔

a l w a y s

Beautiful cover above by caligraephy

Don't skip the author's note at the end please :p

~~~

Marco the (half) ghost.

She's still in shock.

I've been patient, waiting for her to say something, but her mouth refuses to open again after calling my name.

A lit cigarette appears on my lips - a nervous habit - and I run a hand through my messy hair. Hunter has sacrificed his life force for this to happen, so much so that he had passed out, and I'm not too keen to let it go to waste.

"Please, say something," I try to coax her. My hand is still resting on her cheek, though it has stopped shaking. Instead, I'm rubbing circles with my thumb.

A tear spills from her almond eyes and she unfreezes as I wipe it away.

"It's really you," she whispers. She covers my hand with her small palm and trails it up my arm until she reaches my shoulder. Then, she hesitates, unsure if she should continue, so I decide to make things easier for her.

I pull her towards me with one swift motion, causing her to crash into my chest. Nevertheless, she doesn't complain. She rests her head against my torso and sighs, muscles relaxing in reflex. For so many years, I had been her rock, her safe harbor. They called me a bad boy, but I was only good to her. She was - still is, and forever will be - my princess and I hate that I had to die. I hate leaving her here, alone, in this cruel world.

I hate how I'm the cause of her misery, her pain, her guilt, her unforgiveness.

She sobs in my chest and I cry with her. We don't need words - one touch is all it takes for us to understand each other. I inhale her scent - vanilla with a little bit of mint and pine, the same as always.

I miss her so, so much.

I tell her that, and she sobs harder. Her body is shaking, rocking back and forth, and I have to hold her upright by her waist so that she doesn't fall to the floor. My free hand entangles itself in her hair, trying to grant her solace as I move it along her head. She was, is, and always will be my little baby girl.

God, how I hate seeing her cry.

The little clock in the back of my mind grows louder. Tick tock, tick tock. Hunter is in mortal danger with every passing second. Tick tock.

Using both hands, I cup Beth's face as gently as I can, prying her head away from my drenched Levi's shirt - the exact same one I was wearing when I died. She looks into my eyes with her tear-filled ones and my heart wrenches in pain.

And then I'm mad at myself, for not appreciating her enough, until it's too late. I remember picking fights over matters as petty as her closet choice, how I wouldn't let her wear a black bra under a white top, and how I would get mad when she couldn't be with me during the festives because her mother insisted that she went home. She was too good - always sticking by my side even though I threw worse tantrums than a three-year-old. She seldom fretted over anything, but the one time she did, I ended up getting hit by a truck.

Bethany McCausley was, is, and always will be the nicest person with the purest of hearts.

When she has stopped sprouting fresh tears, I caress her face again, tracing patterns agaisnt her jawline as she looks up at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak up.

I sigh, blowing out the cigarette and it disappears into thin air. "Beth, baby, we don't have much time left," I tell her regretfully. "I'm not going to ask you how have you been because I know -"