dead and lovely: one
DEAD AND LOVELY: ONE
1617 words, PG-13/possibly M
myungzy, romance/supernatural
A/N: Hopefully, I was able to convey Myungsoo's personality through the lack of description of his part, hahaha. I'm not so sure if I got the job done, though, so I'm sorry if this whole fanfic sounds odd and misplaced? Cries. Also, overlook my possible grammar mistakes please, I know no such thing as a beta, it seems.
one.
There’s a ghost in my room and her name is Suzy. Sometimes, if the sun is really high and the rays of light create yellow patterns in my room, I can see her clearly. She sits by the window, obliterating my view of the city’s high rises, like a washed out, gauzy mannequin. She died in the 1950s; I figured that out a few days after first seeing her, following an extensive and secret research on women’s clothing throughout the decades (curiosity took the best of me). Her name is probably a memoir of the war, as are probably the open wounds on her wrists. She wears a toe tag on her right foot, and it dangles loosely beside her feet, unwavering. Suzy might have been Jane Eyre, with her elfin, unworldly appearance. Suzy might have been Dolores Haze, with her childish body, and short, white dress. But still I don’t know much about her; other than she likes the view from my window. And that she’s dead.
When did I start seeing ghosts? I wonder that myself. The ability - not a gift - has always been with me. They’re always around, the dead ones. They never notice me, but I notice them instead. The sheer, blanched figures hovering around those who are dear to them, sitting on park benches, walking among people; no place to go, earthbound and an eternity ahead of them. I don’t know what happens after we die, I’ve never asked. Communicating with these people isn’t my thing; in despite of what modern media might portrait, it’s not like I am some sort of hot line for spirits. They don’t seem to need me, and I certainly am fine without ghosts pestering my somewhat uneventful life.
So I try my best to ignore the dead girl in my room like she hasn’t been there for the past two years. My mother - the single other still-breathing human being around - disregards any supernatural traits her only son might possess, and sometimes she’ll come into my room and sit next to Suzy. I’m always in awe at her blissful ignorance of the young girl looking at her with a slightly curious expression. It’s relatively entertaining, but I revert to overlook Suzy’s existence as soon as my mother is gone. Today is one of those days, and as my mother talks about the weather, folds my clothes and then goes on about a blind date - you do know her from that time at the supermarket, the one with the fake double eyelids, and anyway she has a lovely daughter and I got you a blind date for later, you need to leave the house more often, darling - my eyes sway to Suzy’s face. But this time is not my mom she’s watching, but me.
It’s a completely weird, alien feeling, to be seen by a ghost. It’s almost like locking eyes with a stranger on the subway, but not exactly so. Not so vague, maybe. There’s something haunting, unearthly even, about it. In all my 21 years of ghost-sighting, I had never been seen by one myself. Suzy notices I’m not just looking past her, but at her, and her lips let go of a silent oh, while her eyebrows disappear under her uneven bangs. She raises one of her hands, and she waves slowly, unsure of my reaction. I don’t want to acknowledge her, or to talk to her, but I respond too quickly with another wave. Kim Myungsoo, you are now a spirit hot line. Congratulations on your new life.
“What are you waving for?”
My mother is still holding one of my t-shirts, looking at me like I am some kind of deranged puppy. Be gone, mother; that’s all I can think of. But she stares and sticks around, and I have to lie about a really important paper I need to write as I rush her out, closing the door behind her. Suzy hasn’t moved an inch from her usual spot by the window when I turn to look at her again. She sits so still she could have been a doll, lifeless and beautiful. Talk to her, I whisper under my breath, like a frightened school boy in front of his first crush. Do you have a crush on a ghost, Myungsoo? That was a stupid example.
“How are you?”
I immediately regret asking that - such a foolish question. She’s dead.
“I’m just fine,” her voice is airy, like she’s able to produce her own echo. She talks in a formal, old-fashioned way, rolling her syllables longer than usual. “It’s somehow strange to talk to someone after all these years.”
I let out the air I’ve been holding on my lungs. Suzy seems to accept my bizarre condition easily, no questions asked. She doesn’t smile, but she feels lighter. I wonder what to say next. What to say to the ghost of a girl whose wrists are open bruises that don’t bleed? Should I ask her about her life, or her death? But I’m silent, and she’s silent, too. Suzy stands, then, and I see her walking for the first time. She touches the pile of clothing my mom left on my bed, and her fingers linger on the fabric. I wonder if she can actually feel something. I wonder if she has thoughts and ideas, if she sleeps, if she feels hungry, if she does ordinary, human things; like biting her nails. But I feel like those aren’t questions I should be asking when I want to keep away from spirits and their problems.
“Do I bother you?” Suzy inquieres, and she’s back sitting by the window, the particles of dust dancing around her like a rain of glitter. The sunlight is weak, but I can still see her there, the reflection of the glass making her face look blurry, and her figure smaller. Humbert Humbert might have liked her if he were real - if she were real, too. “I can go, if you want me to.”
“You don’t bother me,” I say in a way I judge to be fairly polite, but not in a you may stay and call other ghosts for a sleepover way. “I mean, we’ve been sharing a room for about two years now, it’s not like I notice you’re even there.”
My ability to charm (dead) girls is just as good as my ability to charm a snail, it seems.
“Thank you,” Suzy nods. She doesn’t seem worried about my lack of natural allurement - of course; I should be the one worrying about it, anyway. I sit on the corner of my bed, pushing the folded clothes away, my hands looking for something to keep them busy. “I like it here. Your room, I mean.”
My room is the biggest in our apartment. It used to be a couple’s room, but my mother thought as a young man I needed far more space than she did (and she said so with a smile that could be only regarded as creepy), and I ended up here. There isn't much to look at, in my opinion. A bed, a television, some posters on the wall, a few books, a desk, one messy wardrobe. Not exactly an example of home décor. However, Suzy really did look at ease there. Ever since we moved there and I found out there was a ghost girl living in my room, she never seemed compelled to leave - and I really did try my best, from annoying music to changing my clothes in front of her (something I hope she won't remember).
“Why?”
“I like the sunlight here, it’s warm. And the smell,” Suzy marvels, and I find myself sniffing the air myself; but I don’t smell anything, except maybe for a faint hint of fabric softener. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t make sense to you.”
“It doesn’t, really.”
Suzy chuckles, and the sound is amplified by her ghostly echo, making it sound like three people are laughing. She looks less translucent when she smiles, her skin getting a slightly more lively color, not as blurry, more real. I am about to say something stupid again - you’re really, really not so transparent when you smile, dead girl - but Suzy stops smiling and stares into my eyes; that incongruous feeling creeping under my skin again. It’s not a good feeling; it’s too harsh and raw to explain, staring into an unfortunate, earthbound soul. I am left speechless.
“I was tired of the dark,” she continues. It’s not something I can understand, I realize. It’s not meant for me to understand, at least. “But it’s full of light here. So I stayed.”
“Where did you come from?”
Suzy fades a little bit, and I blink several times until phosphenes are all I can see.
“The dark,” she responds simply. End of story, she’s saying.
We’re silent again, for several minutes now. I don’t really want to make any further questions, simply because I prefer not to know - regardless of what my curiosity might say. My mother calls me from another room, something about that blind date and please don’t go out wearing black again, she might think you’re one of those goth kids, darling. I stand up, brushing invisible dust from my clothes as I do so, delaying leaving that strange, atypical connection with the ghost that lives in my room.
“I have to go. See you later, I guess.”
“Oh, I’ll be here.”
I look back at her before opening the door, and Suzy has a small contained smirk on her face. Did you just crack a joke, dead girl? Dead and lovely, she is. I smile, shaking my head lightly, before leaving. I might have just found a friend.
* Jane Eyre is from Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre. Dolores Haze and Humbert Humbert are both from Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita.
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1617 words, PG-13/possibly M
myungzy, romance/supernatural
A/N: Hopefully, I was able to convey Myungsoo's personality through the lack of description of his part, hahaha. I'm not so sure if I got the job done, though, so I'm sorry if this whole fanfic sounds odd and misplaced? Cries. Also, overlook my possible grammar mistakes please, I know no such thing as a beta, it seems.
one.
There’s a ghost in my room and her name is Suzy. Sometimes, if the sun is really high and the rays of light create yellow patterns in my room, I can see her clearly. She sits by the window, obliterating my view of the city’s high rises, like a washed out, gauzy mannequin. She died in the 1950s; I figured that out a few days after first seeing her, following an extensive and secret research on women’s clothing throughout the decades (curiosity took the best of me). Her name is probably a memoir of the war, as are probably the open wounds on her wrists. She wears a toe tag on her right foot, and it dangles loosely beside her feet, unwavering. Suzy might have been Jane Eyre, with her elfin, unworldly appearance. Suzy might have been Dolores Haze, with her childish body, and short, white dress. But still I don’t know much about her; other than she likes the view from my window. And that she’s dead.
When did I start seeing ghosts? I wonder that myself. The ability - not a gift - has always been with me. They’re always around, the dead ones. They never notice me, but I notice them instead. The sheer, blanched figures hovering around those who are dear to them, sitting on park benches, walking among people; no place to go, earthbound and an eternity ahead of them. I don’t know what happens after we die, I’ve never asked. Communicating with these people isn’t my thing; in despite of what modern media might portrait, it’s not like I am some sort of hot line for spirits. They don’t seem to need me, and I certainly am fine without ghosts pestering my somewhat uneventful life.
So I try my best to ignore the dead girl in my room like she hasn’t been there for the past two years. My mother - the single other still-breathing human being around - disregards any supernatural traits her only son might possess, and sometimes she’ll come into my room and sit next to Suzy. I’m always in awe at her blissful ignorance of the young girl looking at her with a slightly curious expression. It’s relatively entertaining, but I revert to overlook Suzy’s existence as soon as my mother is gone. Today is one of those days, and as my mother talks about the weather, folds my clothes and then goes on about a blind date - you do know her from that time at the supermarket, the one with the fake double eyelids, and anyway she has a lovely daughter and I got you a blind date for later, you need to leave the house more often, darling - my eyes sway to Suzy’s face. But this time is not my mom she’s watching, but me.
It’s a completely weird, alien feeling, to be seen by a ghost. It’s almost like locking eyes with a stranger on the subway, but not exactly so. Not so vague, maybe. There’s something haunting, unearthly even, about it. In all my 21 years of ghost-sighting, I had never been seen by one myself. Suzy notices I’m not just looking past her, but at her, and her lips let go of a silent oh, while her eyebrows disappear under her uneven bangs. She raises one of her hands, and she waves slowly, unsure of my reaction. I don’t want to acknowledge her, or to talk to her, but I respond too quickly with another wave. Kim Myungsoo, you are now a spirit hot line. Congratulations on your new life.
“What are you waving for?”
My mother is still holding one of my t-shirts, looking at me like I am some kind of deranged puppy. Be gone, mother; that’s all I can think of. But she stares and sticks around, and I have to lie about a really important paper I need to write as I rush her out, closing the door behind her. Suzy hasn’t moved an inch from her usual spot by the window when I turn to look at her again. She sits so still she could have been a doll, lifeless and beautiful. Talk to her, I whisper under my breath, like a frightened school boy in front of his first crush. Do you have a crush on a ghost, Myungsoo? That was a stupid example.
“How are you?”
I immediately regret asking that - such a foolish question. She’s dead.
“I’m just fine,” her voice is airy, like she’s able to produce her own echo. She talks in a formal, old-fashioned way, rolling her syllables longer than usual. “It’s somehow strange to talk to someone after all these years.”
I let out the air I’ve been holding on my lungs. Suzy seems to accept my bizarre condition easily, no questions asked. She doesn’t smile, but she feels lighter. I wonder what to say next. What to say to the ghost of a girl whose wrists are open bruises that don’t bleed? Should I ask her about her life, or her death? But I’m silent, and she’s silent, too. Suzy stands, then, and I see her walking for the first time. She touches the pile of clothing my mom left on my bed, and her fingers linger on the fabric. I wonder if she can actually feel something. I wonder if she has thoughts and ideas, if she sleeps, if she feels hungry, if she does ordinary, human things; like biting her nails. But I feel like those aren’t questions I should be asking when I want to keep away from spirits and their problems.
“Do I bother you?” Suzy inquieres, and she’s back sitting by the window, the particles of dust dancing around her like a rain of glitter. The sunlight is weak, but I can still see her there, the reflection of the glass making her face look blurry, and her figure smaller. Humbert Humbert might have liked her if he were real - if she were real, too. “I can go, if you want me to.”
“You don’t bother me,” I say in a way I judge to be fairly polite, but not in a you may stay and call other ghosts for a sleepover way. “I mean, we’ve been sharing a room for about two years now, it’s not like I notice you’re even there.”
My ability to charm (dead) girls is just as good as my ability to charm a snail, it seems.
“Thank you,” Suzy nods. She doesn’t seem worried about my lack of natural allurement - of course; I should be the one worrying about it, anyway. I sit on the corner of my bed, pushing the folded clothes away, my hands looking for something to keep them busy. “I like it here. Your room, I mean.”
My room is the biggest in our apartment. It used to be a couple’s room, but my mother thought as a young man I needed far more space than she did (and she said so with a smile that could be only regarded as creepy), and I ended up here. There isn't much to look at, in my opinion. A bed, a television, some posters on the wall, a few books, a desk, one messy wardrobe. Not exactly an example of home décor. However, Suzy really did look at ease there. Ever since we moved there and I found out there was a ghost girl living in my room, she never seemed compelled to leave - and I really did try my best, from annoying music to changing my clothes in front of her (something I hope she won't remember).
“Why?”
“I like the sunlight here, it’s warm. And the smell,” Suzy marvels, and I find myself sniffing the air myself; but I don’t smell anything, except maybe for a faint hint of fabric softener. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t make sense to you.”
“It doesn’t, really.”
Suzy chuckles, and the sound is amplified by her ghostly echo, making it sound like three people are laughing. She looks less translucent when she smiles, her skin getting a slightly more lively color, not as blurry, more real. I am about to say something stupid again - you’re really, really not so transparent when you smile, dead girl - but Suzy stops smiling and stares into my eyes; that incongruous feeling creeping under my skin again. It’s not a good feeling; it’s too harsh and raw to explain, staring into an unfortunate, earthbound soul. I am left speechless.
“I was tired of the dark,” she continues. It’s not something I can understand, I realize. It’s not meant for me to understand, at least. “But it’s full of light here. So I stayed.”
“Where did you come from?”
Suzy fades a little bit, and I blink several times until phosphenes are all I can see.
“The dark,” she responds simply. End of story, she’s saying.
We’re silent again, for several minutes now. I don’t really want to make any further questions, simply because I prefer not to know - regardless of what my curiosity might say. My mother calls me from another room, something about that blind date and please don’t go out wearing black again, she might think you’re one of those goth kids, darling. I stand up, brushing invisible dust from my clothes as I do so, delaying leaving that strange, atypical connection with the ghost that lives in my room.
“I have to go. See you later, I guess.”
“Oh, I’ll be here.”
I look back at her before opening the door, and Suzy has a small contained smirk on her face. Did you just crack a joke, dead girl? Dead and lovely, she is. I smile, shaking my head lightly, before leaving. I might have just found a friend.
* Jane Eyre is from Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre. Dolores Haze and Humbert Humbert are both from Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita.
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