FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Wednesday, Date Unknown
He is beautiful when he sleeps. Silky black hair falling over his forehead; dark lashes curling against the nutty brown of his cheek; strong squared jaw framing sensuous lips that twitch with his dreaming.
I watch the rise and fall of his chest, unfettered by the sheets. Smooth and muscled, my gaze trails down his chest and abdomen until I am hindered by the covers. I stare at them for a moment wondering if I could devise a way to move them, but am thwarted by the ghostly insubstantiality of my hands. Anyway, I know what is under there. It was one of the first things I noticed when I became aware: he likes to sleep naked. Maybe that’s why I want to rip the blankets away.
So this is what I’m reduced to... an eternity lustfully haunting a man who I can’t touch and who can’t even see me.
I can’t remember how I died -- hell, I can’t even remember anything about how I lived. All I know is that I was 25 years old when I met with my fate and that I was once called Lisa by people who loved me and are now mourning my loss. I’d feel sorry for them but instead I feel sorry for myself that I can’t remember who they are. I figure that something must have gone wrong when I died; some tragic accident that left me seeking revenge on the living world. But, of course, I couldn’t even get dying right because I don’t remember what it is I’m seeking revenge for and without that anger I’ve got nothing. No power over the physical realm of the living. I can’t even make the curtains flutter.
All I’ve got is this gorgeous man to stare at.
The digital clock next to the bed reads 3:00 am; he’ll be up in three hours. I half wish he would stay asleep.
- 鬼魂 -
6:45 am
He’s taking a shower after his morning run. I love watching him shower. That probably makes me a creep for not respecting his privacy but it’s not like he knows I’m here. And what else have I got to do? I am bound to the apartment. I can’t leave it. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s how I’ve spent many a long day while Michael’s at work. It gets old fast.
But watching the water run in accentuating rivulets through his hair and off his chin, over his muscled torso and down, down, down... That never gets old.
Incidentally, I have found that I do not require a physical body to be incredibly turned on.
Michael turns off the water and starts to towel off. I drift out into the steamy bathroom and hum resignedly to myself. I know he can’t hear me. For kicks, I try to write “Michael loves Lisa” in the condensation on the mirror. It doesn’t work, but I do manage to make three drops of water coagulate and dribble a clear line through the fogged glass. It’s better than I’ve ever done before.
“I did it!” I squeal, slipping to his side and pointing at the mirror, “Michael, I did it! Look!” For an instant I almost believe he hears me as he frowns at the mirror then walks toward it. But then he reaches out a hand and wipes away the fog and my hard work with it.
Damn.
- 鬼魂 -
6:00 pm. – 11:59 pm.
He comes home and gets out of his work clothes – tailored grey slacks and a fitted black button down shirt that combine to show off his broad shoulders and tapered waist. I watch him change.
He makes himself dinner – a simple pasta and wine sauce that smells divine and proves he knows his way around a kitchen. I watch him cook. Very sexy.
He settles down in front of the TV – he’s a sports freak, tonight is basketball but the game isn’t a big one so he doesn’t have friends over to watch with him. I do not watch the game. But I do watch him holler at the players on the TV. I snicker when he does his own private victory dance in celebration for his winning team.
“Go Michael. We won. It’s your birthday. Uh-huh,” he sings to himself as he bumps his butt from one side to the other. I am so seriously entertained. I wonder if anyone else ever gets to see him like this: his guard down, the little boy in him peeking through. I doubt it. He is all dignity and class when he leaves for work and even with his friends he is never this goofy.
“Woo hoo! Work it baby!” I cat-call him and pretend that the subsequent butt wiggle is just for me. He picks up his dishes and cha-cha-cha’s back to the kitchen to clean up after himself. When he is finished, he heads back to the bedroom where he strips and climbs into bed, grunting and sighing in exhaustion. It must have been a hard work day, because this bedtime is unusually early for him.
We are back where the day started, me watching him, him sleeping. But I am anxious this time. I am anxious because in exactly one minute it will be midnight. And midnight is the start of The Hours.
From midnight to dawn, all that is paranormal is at its most powerful. Supposedly. In my case all that means is that my presence lowers the air temperature a couple degrees wherever I’m standing. Oh, yes. Very powerful. (I suspect I was a rather sarcastic person when I was alive.)
But tonight is different. I feel it. My success this morning with the mirror is giving me courage to try something new. I will not just watch him sleep tonight. When The Hours start and my power is at its peak, I will make contact. I will.
I glance at the clock and check the time.
In 5, 4, 3, 2...
