The Wildflower and the Poltergeist

∙ the wildflower ∙

Old Paul and the lonely ghost were silently grieving, for there was nothing they could do to defy destiny—or the universe, for that matter. The lonely ghost stared blankly at the photos, his memories bleeding out of them. Still, he couldn't recall his own name. He couldn't remember what his mother called him when she sang him a lullaby, or the name she spoke when she said farewell for the last time.

Suddenly, in the midst of their sorrow, a figure stepped into the room—it wasn't a ghost, because the heavy door was almost thrown off its hinges when it entered. The lonely ghost thought it was Death, but when he turned around, it was a girl in a red t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back in an unruly French braid, her cheeks dotted with freckles and her baby blue eyes gradually widening with disbelief as she stared into his green eyes.

For a moment, his heart skipped a beat—he thought she could see him, but she couldn't. She stared at his pale, unconscious mother before she ran to her, walking right through him and Old Paul as though they were nothing but air—perhaps they were. "Martha?" she cried out hysterically as she placed a shaking hand over Martha's pulse. It was difficult to make it out, so she leaned in and placed an ear on Martha's chest. Her heart was still beating, although very faintly. It was like listening to a child whisper at a loud concerto. "She's still alive," she uttered to herself as she frantically fumbled for her phone and dialed three digits.

"Hello?" she gasped breathlessly into her phone. "There's a lady who overdosed on sleeping pills in my apartment. She's uh, uh...forty nine years old, is about 5 feet and 5 inches tall, and she probably weighs 160 pounds." She paused for a moment as the lonely ghost looked at Old Paul in question. "Who is she?" the lonely ghost asked. "The address...? Ah, it's apartment number 13 on Preston Street, the apartment right in front of Dr. Yates' pharmacy...yes, that one. Room 202—I mean, three. It's two-oh-three."

"Okay, thank you. Please be quick." It was clear that she was trying to stay strong, but her voice ultimately failed her when she choked upon ending the call and eventually burst into a fit of tears.

"Who is she?" the lonely ghost repeated. Old Paul looked at him smilingly and said: "A wildflower." The ghost was puzzled, and it showed. He looked at the girl as she hugged her knees and began to sob hysterically.

"No one knows why she exists. No one knows who put her here. She just...exists. No purpose, whatsoever."

The lonely ghost thought it was tragic, living like that, so he opened his mouth to ask another question, but the old man already knew what he was going to ask. "If I try to see when she dies, I get an endless list of dates. She's a wildflower, son."

"She's impossible to..." the lonely ghost was unsure of the proper word to use.

"That's right, she seems impossible to kill, but that doesn't mean one of the dates that show up won't be the final date."

A chill ran down the lonely ghost's spine upon hearing this. This girl didn't have a purpose, which meant that no matter how hard she tried, she'll never find it. She'll never experience one of those epiphanies when everything just fell into place. She was a wildflower. She just existed for the sake of existing.

"How could she live like that?" the ghost asked himself, as he couldn't imagine how it was to live a life filled with nothing but uncertainty. The girl who bawled her eyes out on the wooden floor was like fragile glassware to him—one thoughtless touch and her life might shatter into a million shards before his eyes.

Old Paul only looked at him with a wrinkled smile on his wizened face—the lines on his small, square face formed a soft, heartfelt expression that soothed the ghost like a still body of water. "Watch her, son. She's stronger than she seems. I know because she's lived here for five years."