Sherry Ficklin - Losing Logan

She rubs her head against me, unimpressed by my slothful declaration. I grab my dog-eared copy of The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe and settle in. It’s a bit darker than what I’ve been reading lately, but it’s by far one of my favorites. As I curl into my comfy old reading chair, Brim leaps up and curls into a ball on my lap. Soon I’m lost in the pages. I don’t look up again until a clap of thunder shakes the house. Carefully moving Brim onto my bed I pull back my sheer curtains. The sky is dark and droplets of rain cover the glass.

I glance at the clock. It’s almost seven now and my stomach growls, taking advantage of the break in my reading to remind me that one can’t live on Cheetos alone. Setting my book beside the still sleeping cat I head back to the kitchen. The kitchen light flickers but manages to stay on. I grab the long black flashlight from the junk drawer, just in case. A flash of light bursts through the windows over the kitchen sink followed quickly by a roll of thunder so loud that the tiny hairs on the back of my neck jump to attention. I shiver and pour myself a glass of milk and toss a few slices of leftover pineapple pizza onto a plate. As I turn back to my room, the lights flicker again. When the flickering stops I’m no longer alone in the kitchen. I don’t scream. I think I’m too startled for that. I can’t even draw in a breath. I’m frozen, unable to think beyond the face staring back at me. The glass and plate slip through my fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering at my bare feet. Logan stands in front of me with his hands held out .

“Don’t move,” he says urgently.

Then I scream.

The scream rips its way up my body and explodes like a volcano out my mouth. I take a step back and feel bits of glass cut into the bottom of my foot. Lifting my weight off the foot I tumble backwards, landing in a pile of glass and porcelain.

“Stop moving,” Logan commands. “You’re going to cut yourself to shreds.”

I take a deep breath and scream again, only this time my voice is strained so the sound comes out ragged and strangled.

“Will you please stop screaming? Seriously Zoe.”

My eyes are wide. My heart is pounding against my ribcage so hard I think I might actually throw up. I take another breath, but this time I hold it in until I can’t anymore and it expels in a hot rush.

“What are you doing here?”

He folds his arms, looking smug. “What am I doing here, as in here in your kitchen, or do you mean here in more general terms? As in why am I not—“

“Rotting in the ground somewhere?”

He wrinkles his nose. “I was going to say dead, but thanks for the vivid.”

Slowly my senses start coming back into focus. The pain in my foot is intense, but not enough to distract from the sliver of glass stuck in my forearm.

“I’m bleeding,” I say, watching the crimson leaking down my arm and off of my elbow as I inspect it.

“That happens when you fall into a pile of broken glass.”

I glare at him, “Shut up, Logan.”

I grab the sliver of glass with two fingers and pull it out quickly. The blood flows more freely, pooling beside me. I toss the toothpick sized sliver aside. Using my other arm like a mop to clear a space, I slide myself back out of the glass and press my back against the wall. Bringing my foot up for inspection, I see the cut. It’s shallow and there is nothing in the wound. My hands shake as I pull myself to my feet, using the handle of the fridge door for support. I skirt around the glass, stepping carefully as I maneuver around Logan without looking up at him, and make my way, limping, to the bathroom.

Scooping the first aid kit from under the sink I flip the lid down and sit on the toilet. I can feel Logan staring at me as I clean the cut on the bottom of my foot and stick a bandage over it. My arm is still bleeding, but it’s not too bad anymore so I wipe off the excess blood with a wad of toilet paper.

“That probably needs stitches,” he says. I can see that he’s leaned up against the counter, his feet crossed at the ankles. But I don’t dare look up. Looking him in the eyes is like feeding the delusion.

Ignoring him, I slap a band-aid over the cut. When that’s done I just sit there for a minute with my eyes fixated on the spring behind the door. I’m trying to decide what to do, what to say. I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten.

“Still here,” he says when I open them. I sigh.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here?” I ask, finally looking up. “And what exactly are you?”

“Well, I’m here because for some weird reason you can see me when no one else can.”

I sit back, still clutching the plastic first aid box to my chest.

“Why can I see you?”

He cocks his head, “How am I supposed to know?” He rubs his hand down his face in frustration, then glares at me. “Do you see dead people often?”

I make a face. “No. you’re the first.”

He throws his hands up. “Great. Just freaking great. The one person who can see me, and she has no clue what’s going on.” His eyes fall back to mine, “I was really hoping you’d have some answers.”

“Well, I don’t. So maybe you should just…you know. Go.”

“Go where exactly?”

I stand up. “I don’t know! Go into the light or something. Shit, what do I look like? A ghost expert?”

“You look like the only person who can see and hear me.”

I let out a deep breath and squeeze the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “This isn’t happening. This is just some bad dream.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told myself too. For days I stood in my living room screaming at my parents while they sobbed over my picture. I thought I was losing my mind. Then I followed them to the funeral. And I saw you.”

I flick my hands and he moves so I can toss the kit back under the sink. I turn and walk to my room with him following me.

“This is exactly why I don’t go to funerals,” I huff and flop onto my chair.

“ This is why you don’t go to funerals?” he asks, one eyebrow arched.

I shrug. “Fine, not this exactly. But nothing good ever comes from funerals. People are always like, you should go, get some closure . But that’s all a load of crap. All it is, is another way to traumatize yourself. Just more bad memories to heap onto the pile.”

He sits on the edge of my bed, Brimstone stands, arches her back in a stretch, then looks right at him, hisses and runs out of the room.

“Looks like you aren’t the only one who can see me.”

“That bi-polar cat is not proof that you aren’t just a figment of my over caffeinated, over Poe’d imagination.”

“This is getting old. How can I prove I’m really here?”

My head is beginning to ache. “I don’t know. Being haunted is new to me, can you give me a minute to come to grips, please ?”

He sits back on his hands. “Fine. One minute. Clock starts now.”

I throw a pillow at him and it passes right through. “Well, I suppose I should have expected that,” I mumble. He rolls his eyes.

I squint. “What are you in such a hurry for, anyway? You kind of have, I don’t know, forever, right?”

Then something dawns on me. “Oh my God. You aren’t going to haunt me forever, right? I mean, this isn’t going to be my life now. Being followed around by an arrogant pain in the ass ghost?”

“Keep up the flattery and I just might.”

I lean my head back and close my eyes. “I hate my life.”

“You know, that’s a pretty bitchy thing to say in front of a guy who no longer has one.”

My head snaps up and I stare at him. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. From his perspective, he must be miserable, in a special kind of hell.