I wake like every other day since the accident; cold and alone, with Amy's pale silhouette hovering next to my bed.
"Amy," My voice comes out in a frog-like croak. I lean forward, eyes burning. Amy raises a translucent finger to her lips, a shushing motion. She knows what will happen if someone catches me talking to her. Or, correction, thin air.
"Do not say a single word, Brittany." Her voice is quiet, a whisper. A whisper that reaches only my ears.
The thing about Amy's ghost is that she talks nothing like she did before she died. I have been told that in death, you stay the same. Only your sicknesses and disabilities are cured. Not true in the slightest. Amy talks all sophisticated now that she's a ghost. Also, she calls me Brittany. Nobody calls me Brittany. Not even Gramma Jo. I'm Brit. Brit Luster.
People say spirits are white or gray in many cases. Once again, this is not true. Amy's hair is beautiful, even dead. It's long and golden, with tiny pink bleeding hearts and pale green leaves entwined in the tiny braid wrapped around her head. Her eyes are the same; a rich whiskey brown. It's just that everything has been faded. It's kind of like on Photoshop when you set the opacity to 50%. Actually, that's exactly what it's like.
My toes brush the cold wooden floor of my bedroom, and I curl my toes up for protection. I let the knuckles of my toes rest there for a moment. I then push myself out of bed. Amy then proceeds to lay herself out on my bed, all stretched out and comfy looking. She used to do that in her human life, too.
I look at the full-length mirror on my door. I see myself; dark circles, braces, pale skin, short strawberry blonde hair, crooked side bangs that actually go over my left ice fire eye. I've lost weight since the incident, but my stomach is still chubby. And I see Amy; a smudge of discolored light on my bed.
A banging on my door. A loud male voice. Jamison. "Brit, get off your lazy butt!"
I wince. "Jamison, I'm up already."
"Well, get out here, then!"
That's my half-brother. My loud, obnoxious half-brother. The one with the dark hair and bad attitude. We have the same chilling blue eyes, though. He, however, spends as much time playing first person shooters as I spend reading.
I yank open my door, which surprises him. I've been more aggressive with him since the accident. Had a shorter temper. Lost it more. Threw things at him. Hurt him.
But the anger is locked inside of me still. It's too early to give into whatever rage lurks inside my mind. So I just stand there glaring at him in my baggy, blue plaid pants and pastel blue shirt. The shirt even has a rubber duck on it. I must seem so threatening.
He laughs. "I want breakfast."
I glare harder. "Go get yourself your own dang breakfast."
"No, I'll leave that to the women of the world." He laughs harder.
"Sexist," I scowl. "I hope you realize that I've killed you twice in my head already."
"How did you do so? Slit my throat then leave me to die on the side of the Old Hi-"
Smash.
My fist. His face. No control. Rage.
He stumbles backwards, clutching his nose and falling against the bathroom door. I didn't punch him hard enough to break anything. He'll be fine. I slam my door and lock it as fast as I can. I push my dresser in front of the door.
He starts pounding on the door, screaming at me to open it so he can effing kill me.
I go sit on the bed next to Amy. Bringing my hands to my face, I take long, shaky breaths. Amy is humming a melody. It sounds like a lullaby. It's almost like a mix of the acoustic version of the Harry Potter theme and My Heart Will Go On from Titanic.
I'm not sure when she stops humming, but when she does, the rage inside of me is gone.
"Thank you." I whisper.
