Erased

What were these objects that lay through The Ghost? He was transparent as the glass bottle of Jack Daniel's through his belly, yet he could not be touched. Matter of fact, same principle applied to when he reached for the bottle of whiskey. But why drink now? Mind's cloudy... nothing. His vision began to unblur, revealing a bedroom but with no walls to separate the bed from the living room. In front of the Ghost, onto his left side, there was a television. Screen was pitch black. There were more cans, more pails containing varying liquors; judging from the different labels. Some lay spilled, opened at the top. Some lay empty. No smell to ascertain the quantity. They were there, for whatever the reason.

Shoes. The pair were white-tipped sneakers. They looked untouched, removed from any stains. The Ghost investigated, the closet door wide open. No remaining clothes. Was anybody here before him? And if so, where were they? The Ghost stood, as though he recognised the polished wooden floors could hold his gravity. Nothing else could be distinguishable for as long as the Ghost stood in his position; all he could do was to continue walking.

A door spawned to existence; inside it, a whirling portal. The Ghost stopped. Meanwhile, the walls pixelated, returning to what appeared to be static, accompanied by the vague sounds of gurgling. Indecipherable noise. The Ghost remained still, now watching the pails, cans and that Jack Daniel's bottle swiveling around him as though they were in orbit.

A voice echoed, “Such an untimely fate you've been met with.”

Then, new objects materialised into orbit; items such as closed cardboard boxes full of clothing and picture frames of a young man, surrounded by other people in the night sky all throughout daytime. The Ghost couldn't identify who the young man in that frame was. But whoever he was, he appeared content no matter how severe the storms.

“Who was he?”, responded the Ghost.

Nothing...

As the Ghost attempted to move away from the items swirling around his waist, they followed him, resembling a large halo. Sudden desolation dawned upon the Ghost; nobody could hear his pleas for rescue, save for the Monsters that would irrevocably tarnish his soul and be condemned into the pits of Hell with them if they heard. Burdened by the alcoholic beverages and photographs circulating around the Ghost like a prompter, he crouched down, as though perched on a seat. A bench materialised from its legs, along with an unraveling pathway with pricks of green grass that trailed and winded down to a distant coffee shop, sounds of gentle waves crashing into one another like sequence. The Ghost's hands clasped, like a request for the Holy Bread and Wine; except, he was given a coffee mug, also pixelating itself into existence. The Ghost looked at the words scrawled with a black marker pen...

“William Death,” hushed that voice, “his name belonged to you.”

The Ghost watched a crowd of people, congregating by a patch of grass, separating the dirt from the sand. He observed a youthful, fair-skinned girl— or so what he thought, with dirty blonde hair, braided. That same figure was holding a soccer ball and was wearing her sports gear. She had been idling there, her back facing the Ghost, for as long as he could recall. That same girl collapsed to her knees, her palms burrowed against her eyes, appearing distraught as what looked like her friends were consoling her. The Ghost solemnly pointed his head back down to his lap, only to find his coffee cup disappeared from his hands, replaced with a rose.

“Give the rose to The Mourning...” spoke that voice again. “You're gone, but they wish to see you again.”

The first clue of his previous life was revealed to him, that pit in his stomach expanding deeper, into hollowness. That particular rose, The Ghost had witnessed them before; they were the only parts of nature this void could be made clear, everything else remained in discombobulated silhouettes. The Ghost was now left with some choices to make, one that would lay him in the eternal afterlife after handing over the rose, or to turn away from the grief in front of his eyes, leaving the figures to vanish.

Rising up from the bench, or as it appeared to him in clusters of pixels, degenerating into microscopic particles like existence itself was fleeting, The Ghost approached the figure. Just before handing over the rose, he watched the clouds glitching more intensely with each footstep, the skies losing their saturation and the sounds of the oceans skipping.

That same figure turned around to face The Ghost. Somehow, his heart was pulsing, like that was ever there prior. The closer he stepped towards the figure, the more it contorted, its frames of animation increasingly minimal and less fluid. The figure turned around. But rather than any suggestion of a facial expression, it was replaced by a pitch black void. The Ghost repelled at the sight, his hands now hesitant, but not releasing the stem of the rose.

“This is your chance”, the voice whispered to The Ghost, “...for answers.”

The Ghost handed the rose to the figure. Everything around them blurred out, flickering to darkness; the figure disappeared. The Ghost watched something from the distance, an illuminating light moving towards him; he looked down at his hands, pale with a tinge of blue in his knuckles. He heard sniffling as The Mourning stopped, the void that previously loomed over the face was revealed.

“Teigan?” The Ghost asked.

“William,” Teigan spoke, her eyes glistening with more tears to be shed. “It's me, Teigan. Your sister.”

She lifted her hand up to touch his. Her palm stopped before it could sense any contact with her brother's. William felt nothing but a wall between them.

“Your skin, it's nothing like you before...” Teigan's words hitched, a harsh wince sounded from her voice and echoed through. She couldn't pain herself any longer to witness her brother, deprived of any vibrancy in his face, eyes and body.

“Before what?”, William asked.

The invisible wall between them disabled. The voice intercepted. “Follow Teigan. Take her hand.”

Teigan invited William to walk with her through the interminable pitch darkness, save for the crumbling glass floor they both stood on. The glass cracked with each step. William held her hand like he was clutching for the dearest life he had lost, feeling as though it was restoring into his original self. As they were approaching the thinly laid edge, blue and light green pixels started floating up from around them like mosaics.

“Will?”, Teigan asked, begrudgingly glancing at the final scene of her brother. “Would you like to play soccer? Kick the ball around?”