The Boy Who Was Already Dead

Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

The stone steps had darkened unusually. Crimson red stained all the way down to the sidewalk. Clay felt the blood drip from the top of his head and down his face even now. There was no way for him to wash it away.

There was no pain in death. Not much feeling at all, really. That much Clay was sure, even having spent so little time like this.

It wasn't so different from his life, he supposed. Even then, he was an apparition, moving along though life, never really there but never really gone either. His movements had been carried like leaves in the wind, following complacently, never changing the direction for himself. His voice had come and gone, just a slight shuffle of trees among loud and powerful branches.

He could no longer glide in the wind, no longer ruffle pointlessly. Clay wasn't sure if that was his greatest despair or most invigorating relief.

Would he miss the wind? The luscious forest?

Clay had watched as they carried away his cold corpse. He could see a vague outline of where it once was, of where he once was.

He didn't know how he died, wasn't sure it mattered. He wanted to know, but how could he find out?

He couldn't feel the wind anymore. How was it to carry his whispers?

He'd stood at these steps for hours. Maybe longer. People came and went. Clay dodged anyone coming too close. He wasn't sure whether he was ready to find out if people could walk through him. (They walked through him in life, didn't they?)

A week passed. The blood was gone. Clay was certain he had watched it being cleaned, yet he couldn't picture a face, couldn't recall how many people had scrubbed it away. He wasn't even sure how long it had been since the stains had disappeared .

His legs should be burning, they should not be able to support his weight at all. He hasn't sat once in all this time. His stomach should be growling, his throat dry. It wasn't, they weren't.

Should he go home? Does he want to?

A month was gone. Clay still heard the murmurs of students walking to the nearby school. "Did you hear? Some kid died over there..."

Where was home again? He could remember the faces of his parents, of his sister. He knew if he started walking, Clay would end up taking himself to a small house at the end of a cul de sac. Was that his home? Did he like it there? What even was home anymore? What had it been when he was alive?

One year, maybe longer. He'd lost track. At some point he had gotten tired of watching those same stone steps. The steps that continued to sport crimson red, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself the blood was gone. There was still a stain in his mind, of intense color and it's violent history. It colored every inch of his brain. Some days it was all he could think about.

He'd gone into the school. There was no purpose for him there, nothing to be lost nor gained.

He'd begun comparing things. The size of classrooms, the different social groups. Things hadn't changed much since he had been a student. He hadn't gone there, hadn't been old enough. But his school wasn't too dissimilar. Different artwork adorned the walls, the students walking the halls, but it was all the same fundamentally. He should still be a student now. He couldn't help but compare his contribution in life and death.

He didn't have any friends, wasn't a part of any clubs. But he had good grades. At the time that seemed most significant. It was for his future. Get into a good college, get a good job. Now he wasn't so sure...

If he had contributed more...

People would miss him then, he thought. Clay would miss them too, he supposed. But he didn't contribute and he doesn't miss anyone. Was that a good thing? Less pain for everyone? (Less happiness in the past, too.)

Clay tried not to think about time too often. He didn't wonder if he was supposed to be a freshman now. If maybe it had been longer than that. Maybe he should be a sophomore. Maybe he would have already graduated high school...

Clay had sat through every class at least once. He found some subjects more interesting than others. He supposed that was normal.

He found himself wishing he could take those classes and begin to hate them too. For the teachers or for the work. Oddly enough, he longed for the days when he would be able to find a class he liked on a rare occasion only. Now, though, he likes every class. They make him feel alive again, if only slightly. Clay wondered if that was normal too, given his unusual situation.

He would listen to the lectures, and read the tests over a student's shoulder, just to see if he knew the answers. He did almost every time. In life he had been smart. In death he had nothing else to grasp onto other than knowledge, for his sanity's sake. Death was the greatest educator and from it he learned as much as he could.

The summers were hard. There were no teachers or students or activities to keep him occupied. Clay at one point considered leaving to find entertainment elsewhere. That thought was written off faster than it had appeared. He wasn't sure he could bear it. If he left he would no longer be here. He liked it here. He couldn't give up on it, even if rationally Clay knew that he could return at any time.

Instead, Clay began to test himself on matters other than subjects found in textbooks. He learned a lot during summers.

He once threw a pen in frustration. The people were gone and Clay was no longer a person without people. Clay had never before felt exhaustion like he had that day. Even still, he practiced. By now he could write an entire essay if he wished.

Sometimes he could possess things too. Computers, cars, golf carts. He could also possess mirrors, but that would make him visible to people. When he first died, he would give anything to let someone know he was there, anyone at all. Now he couldn't fathom it. There was an underlying fear consuming his being when faced with the thought that people could know he existed. A fear of what, he wasn't so sure.

(Maybe it was the people. Ghosts were evil of course, no other way to look at it. They might hate him before even truly knowing him.

Worse still, they might ignore him even after being forced to acknowledge his presence.

Clay chose not to think about how these same fears have stalked him since birth, and followed him into death.)

When school had started once more, Clay slipped into any random class, same as he always did come the beginning of the year.

The desks were in rows. Some days, like today, he was lucky enough to acquire a seat. Others, he would sit on the floor. Ghosts couldn't float like in the movies. That was one fact that truly disappointed him. He could glide along the floor, but not fly.

It didn't take Clay long to realize he was in a math class. He didn't like math. It was hard to comprehend without practice. He couldn't practice without being seen.

As the teacher droned on, Clay moved to leave. He didn't have to go through the desk and the chair this time, there was enough space to travel freely.

He didn't like walking through things. It made him feel weird. Like cold water traveling through your clothes and onto your skin. But he had no skin nor physical clothes. The icy water ran through him instead, his very being. It would stop nowhere and spread throughout the reflection of what was once his body.

Walking through people was worse, he discovered a short while after being dead. The icy water was still there, only he could also feel what they could. A girl biting her fingernails had been stressed for a test she hadn't studied for, a boy with puffy eyes and flushed cheeks had been angry because of a comment made from a kid in an earlier class. He felt them just barely. Not enough to affect his mood. Just enough for the longing to set in.

The door was a few feet away when it happened. It swung open to reveal a disheveled looking boy. His dark fluffy hair was a mess, his black rimmed glasses lay lopsided on his face, and he was panting. Presumably from running all the way here. He looked directly at Clay and said, "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry! Here!"

And he moved out of the way.

And held the door open.

For Clay.