The Crime in Callahan's Morrow - being rewritten

Chapter 6: A ghost and the dead body

"Be careful what you wish for... because it may come true."

-An old proverb

VI.

Jonnatan sat in the darkest corner of a bar. Coincidentally that was right beside the counter. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand and pretended to sip. The bar was on the shady side, he knew it – everyone in the town knew it. However, it seemed the boisterous tourists that got lost (he learned after hearing them confessing it for the third time in the last 5 minutes) obviously weren't aware of it.

He was sure the jukebox wasn't plugged in since the old-fashioned jazz could be heard coming from the loudspeaker. The music could almost be considered ambiental, if one didn't mind the screeching when tones got too high. At least the ovner should've bought a new set of loudspeakers.

The bar was almost packed even in this early hour – a few drunkards sprawled in seats in the left corner, the already mentioned tourists sipping the most expensive beer this place had to offer in the right corner, and probably the usual patrons scattered through the smoke-filled room. As expected of this cheap establishment. But that was a good thing, too. No one paid attention to a lone man sipping whiskey which was just about as relaxing as it could be.

Jonnatan would raise the glass to his plump lips here and there, without tasting the sharp beverage, and used his magic to make it disappear bit by bit. That withered plant in the same corner as drunkards would get drunk by the time he was done. Maybe it would revitalize it. 

He couldn't drink liquids. Actually, he could. But it hurt. So he'd learned to pretend to do normal things like eating and drinking, otherwise, people would get curious.

Taking a corporeal form was already exhausting enough, processing food and liquids was very hard and taxing on his existence, resulting in pain if performed. Apparently, that was what happened if a ghost took a physical form and tried to do what living beings do. He'd learned it the hard way.

Missing the experience of aromas on his tongue was not worth the agony his metaphysical body would go through. Except when he felt particularly nostalgic – or as some would rather say idiotic – then Jonnatan would grit his teeth and take all the pain and misery just to feel alive for a few seconds. Definitely idiotic, he snorted in agreement, staring lasers at the offending drink sloshing in the glass he was clutching in his hand, an ugly scowl gracing his features.

Sarcasm and dark humor along with cynical thoughts were normal for him, his existence something he never would've imagine in his human life. A special ghost. That's what he was. A phantom that could be seen, heard, and even touched, though the last part only happened if he used his power to make his body tangible. It took him almost half the century to master that power – fucked up as he already was. He'd wanted to be normal as much as he could, grasping as almost impossible strings.

Back at that period of his 'life', he hadn't had any cause for living... right, not living – existing, that was. Until he'd met a vampire with the same problem. But that vampire was the one who'd tried to find his place in this world, and while watching him, Jonnatan learned that if you wanted something, you had to make it happen yourself. So instead of feeling miserable for himself, he had decided to use his gift of second life (it was a curse, honestly) to find the purpose for himself. He had joined SIB and used what he had for good – for a notion he had believed in before this wretched existence.

He'd never found out where souls of the living went when they died since he missed the fucking path there. Some souls hung around after death, but even they disappeared after some time, and as far as he was aware of, apparently, he was the only soul that didn't get the bloody memo.