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WATKINS can see ghosts.
Well. He can see a ghost, but that's one more apparition than anyone else can see so he considers his capabilities superior to everyone's. He can't recall the exact day that he saw it for the first time, nor can he comprehend why it came in the first place. One day it just appeared to him out of the blue after one of his more infamous screaming matches with Zelda had ended, but it wasn't trying to possess his body so he allows it to stick around and leave as it pleases. He assumes this is just one of those things that his life has in store for him. At this point, Watkins doesn't question much of what happens to him anymore.
He has nightmares about the undead rising from the underworld, trying to murder him and create a new world that may or may not be hell on earth? Fine, maybe the dream will be shorter the next time for his own sanity. He can see a ghost? Pleasant, as long as it isn't trying to kill him too.
The brunette sits at his desk and attempts to finish his homework, but he does so in vain. Because not only is he absolute-fucking-garbage at everything involving a math equation, but Watkins has found himself gazing down at the card that he sits in front of his gaze almost ten times a day. Instead of stars and the shroud of darkness, he now sees the broken pieces of a man on the inside of his eyelids.
Today is no different.
Without hesitation, the young man places the card in front of the problem he's busy doing and just stares at it. There are no thoughts that run through his mind, no feelings that make the contents of his stomach churn. He's just ... numb.
Sometimes, Watkins is better at being dead than alive — maybe that's why everyone wants to kill him because they all know he's a fraud, a dead man among the living.
"Shouldn't you be doing your school work?"
He wishes he can be surprised or even frightened at the sound of the new arrival in the room, but there are very few things left in this world that surprise Watkins anymore. Giving a reluctant sigh, he turns slightly to the right to give the ghoul a very bored stare over his shoulder.
"You should knock before you come in places so abruptly, you know. You may be dead but chivalry isn't," Watkins says.
It says, "Death allows me to roam as I please around this earth, Watkins. If I don't have to knock for the archangel, then I'm sure as hell not knocking for the likes of a boy."
Watkins gives him a face before turning back around and muttering, "I've never met a spirit so fucking rude before."
He hears the springs of the mattress squeak as the ghost flop down on his bed and allows silence to fill the space for a moment, the white noise treatening to curl around his throat and choke him before his friend speaks. "You're in a pissy mood today. Well, a pissier mood than usual. What has you troubled, young one?"
It can be considered a sad truth that this ghost knows Watkins better than people he's known since he was eleven years old, but it's called the truth for a reason. It's so easy to fool the living because they're too busy hiding their own skeletons that they don't have enough time to find his own. Watkins can wink, give a boyish smile, and say a suave "I'm fine" to the rest of the world, but It knows him better than that. In the privacy of his own isolation, he is transparent to the dead man besides him. He finds it oddly refreshing, so it doesn't take a lot of pushing to open up to the spirit.
"This," he starts, pulling the card off of the table and handing it to the young ghost, "is what has me troubled."
The ghost leans back on the palms of his hands and spins the card around in his left hand, dull brown eyes analyzing it carefully before glancing at Watkins. "How long have you allowed this tarot card to harvest every corner of your mind?"
