In This Town

7. White

Imogen, breathe. Calm down. Inhale.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Just relax. Slow down. Relax!

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You're overreacting, Imogen. Exhale, think.

Whirrrrrrr.

Imogen blinked, looked around the room. The clock that hung up on her wall seemed to tick in slow motion, an unnerving contradiction to the fast tapping of fingers on a knee - Bo's fingers.

What is going on?

Imogen inhaled. She eyed the fan in the corner of her room, softly whirring, filling her ears with white noise. Only, the feeling of comfort it usually evoked had diminished. She needed silence. Her brain was already too loud. Imogen needed to turn it off.

"I'm going crazy," she murmured, staring at the paper-white skin of the girl in front of her. When she squinted, Imogen could see right through Bo, into parts of her room that should have been blocked by Bo's body.

"Imogen, get a grip. Pretend this is a dream, okay?" Bo's voice was impatient, but her body language was relaxed. It was as though she understood the inner turmoil Imogen was working through in her brain.

Imogen's eyebrows pulled together as she mulled over Bo's words. Pretend this is a dream.

She could do that. She could think of details later. Or perhaps - rather, hopefully - she really would wake up later, find out it really was a dream.

"Okay," Imogen said finally. "Okay, this is a dream. Cool. So, you're a ghost?" She asked in a collected tone. She pretended she couldn't hear her pounding heart in her ears.

Bo huffed, extending a hint of a smile to Imogen and hoping to ease the overwhelming atmosphere. "Let me start at the beginning. My name's Bo Adams," she said slowly, watching the way Imogen's head fell into her hands and her eyelids fluttered closed. "I'm 18... Um, well, I guess I'm technically still 17. I don't know how this works yet." Bo was sure that if her skin wasn't the colour of the snow she had last seen when she was still alive, her face would be painted in streaks of pink.

"Anyway... My favourite colour is yellow, and my hair is not naturally dark brown. I've never been a fan of the blonde hair my mother passed down to me."

Imogen felt sick. This can't be real, she thought confusedly. Her brain flashed back to the image of her blonde haired English teacher running into class.

"I was close with her daughter, and um, I'm not anymore," she remembered Grayson saying of Mrs. Adams.

"And, well," Bo continued, glancing around what was now Imogen's bedroom, "this used to be my room. Hence the box that says Bo's keepsakes, which I'm quite offended was left behind when my family moved."

Imogen tried to process the words. Hearing them out loud made everything too real. It gave too much validation to all the things she was sure was all inside her head from the day she had moved.

This isn't a dream, Im. Stop wishing you're going to wake up.

Bo seemed to understand the thoughts running through Imogen's head. "I wish I could tell you everything, Imogen. But I have a strange feeling that if I knew everything, I wouldn't be here. Talking to you."

Imogen nodded, still not having said anything since Bo had started talking.

"So, yes. I'm, um, a ghost. I was killed, Imogen, and that's not even the worst of it."

Imogen was getting dizzy. Her mouth felt dry as she shifted her gaze from Bo to the floor, trying to focus on something that wasn't moving. Why is the floor spinning? Why is everything spinning?

"The newspapers, the autopsy report, they all say my death is a suicide. I remember next to nothing of what happened in the last few weeks before I died, but I do know this: I was not the one that put the gun to my head, and I sure as hell was not the one that pulled the trigger."

Imogen's breath caught in her throat and her eyesight became blurry as her eyes watered. She coughed, reached for the garbage can next to her bed.

Shot. Killed. Murder.

She emptied the contents of her stomach into the garbage can,

Murder. Imogen, breathe. Murder.

She shook her head, not making eye contact with the calm dead girl that sat with her legs crossed in front of Imogen.

Gun to her head. Shot. Murder. MURDER.

"You read books, you watch movies. Yet, nothing can really prepare you for the day you actually have a dead person sitting in front of you, conversing with you over how they were murdered." Imogen sighed into the garbage can after her thoughts quieted down, grimacing when she realized what she had just done.

Bo didn't take notice of the puke, instead giggling at the words that left Imogen's lips. There was an awkward mix of emotions in the air as they fell into a silence. Imogen collected her thoughts, stared at Bo with the expectation that she'd suddenly disappear into thin air; all a hallucination.

"Bo, why are you here, telling me this? Why me? You don't even know me," Imogen said after a moment, still leaned warily over her trash can.

Bo sighed. "I didn't want to get to that part yet. You know, considering you just hurled at the mention of my death."

Imogen found herself rolling her eyes. "Tell me," she urged.

"You're new in town, Im- can I call you Im?" Bo paused to ask, though she didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Anyway, you're new in town. You don't know anyone, you don't have opinions formed on anybody; the most unbiased person around.

"As I mentioned before, um, I don't remember many details of the weeks before I was killed. I was hoping I could find someone around - preferably someone unbiased - that could help me recollect some of the memories. Maybe even help me figure out who killed me."

Imogen started shaking her head before the sentence could finish leaving Bo's mouth. "No, no! I don't even know you! I can't find a murder, Bo! I'm not a detective," she yelled, narrowing her eyes at the pale girl.

"Don't you think I know that? Im, I'm desperate. I have this feeling inside of me, a nagging, telling me that the reason I'm still walking this earth is because I don't know who put the bullet through my head. I need to know, and you're my only hope," Bo paused for a second, pursed her lips. Then, she reiterated again, "Imogen, I want, no, I need, you to help me find my murderer."

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I had so much fun writing this chapter! I tried my best to put myself in Imogen's shoes so I could really capture the emotions she was feeling. The style I wrote this in differs from my usual writing style, but it was important to me to really get inside Imogen's head for this one.

Let me know what you think!