Haunting Dorian

Prologue

PRESENT

Every morning like usual Dorian wakes up without delay, gets washed up, dressed, but before he goes anywhere he always stops by his nightstand. On it, next to a burned out candle, is a small clay pendant that oddly enough means the world to him. He hangs it around his neck and hides it under his t-shirt, away from prying eyes and close to his heart. There it warms against his skin in no time and becomes a part of him for the rest of the day before in the evening he sets it next to a newly lit candle and goes to bed.

He lives alone in a big apartment he calls his studio. There's only one decent room there and that's his bedroom. The guest bedroom holds his stack of paintings. He's hung them up on the walls as well as lining them from one end to the other. His living room is the biggest mess; a small couch on one side, right next to the door, a classic coffee table in front of it, and then a television he hardly turns on.

The rest of the living room belongs to his artsy tools and passionate paint splashing. The floor there is always covered by plastic trash bags cut apart and stretched across like a carpet. His easel is standing there like a brave soldier, bearing all of his tantrums and artistic outbursts. Right under the easel, over the plastic covered floor are many newspapers laid out, covered by drops of paint.

His kitchen is open. The counter starts on the other side of the door and it is very nice, modern. But Dorian doesn't cook and so the most used object there is the microwave oven.

All of his rooms are great in height and have wide windows looking over the entire city. Yet, he doesn't gaze out through them for hours and instead covers it all up with thick curtains. Why not get another apartment if that was too open for him? He likes the vibe of the half brick walls and the space of it on the inside. He also likes that it is high above the ground, making him feel like he's above the clouds without ever needing to look down at the city under his feet.

Needless to say, his family doesn't visit often. He would rather drive out to see them than invite them into his studio, which he knows is messy.

He rushes through his living room and to his fridge, from which he grabs a bottle of sparkly water, tucks it under his arm, and then snatches up two apples. Over the back of the couch is his coat. He juggles the bottles and apples and struggles the coat on.

He can hear the soft dibble dibble dot dot against his windows as the rain lashes against it.

He pushes his bottle into one of his pockets and the extra apple into the other one, while another apple is caught between his teeth. He pats his pocket for his phone and keys before finally leaving the apartment.

Out in the hallway, he feels relieved to escape social interaction, as it is too late for any of his neighbors to rush to work anymore. That reminds him of a meeting with a gallery owner he is supposed to rush to after his session.

Dorian found himself a psychologist when he moved out of his parents' house. He wanted to pursue his artistic dreams but thought that his past was holding him back. Every time after coming back home from another session with the fair doctor, he felt relieved beyond imagination and could set up a new canvas on his easel and pick up a brush.

His skills at reading people bettered over the years and he knew when his psychologist was losing hope in his sanity, at which he began faking to get better until he wasn't called back again and then found someone new.

For the sake of his art.

For the time being, his psychologist is a woman scarcely above thirty. She was lucky enough to grab an office right when she got out of school. She is usually very attentive, but not very good at hiding her thoughts and feelings from him. He knows exactly when she is distracted and bored of him. It makes their relationship very difficult.

As always, the moment he steps into her office, he leans against the wall next to the door and she raises from behind her battered, second-hand desk. "Welcome, Dorian. How about you sit down?" He completely ignores her offer and stays by the wall, hands behind his back and palms pressed against the rough wallpaper. She sits down in a chair in front of a black leather couch.

"Let's start then." She asks him about his week, how his art has been going and if he has spoken to his family. He answers to each question, masking his annoyance; those are the questions he has a little group of friends for. But there is no need to make it any more difficult than it already is. At last, they get to the part which Dorian returns for every week.

"Every passing day, it more and more feels like it's something I made up in my head. To cope with what I didn't understand and feared to talk to my family about." He pulls the pendant out from under his shirt and twists it around between his fingers.

"Why do you think that is, Dorian?"

He blinks in confusion, staring at the smartly dressed woman across from him, waving her pen over her notebook. "Because how can it actually be? All of it? Melinda was... Surreal." As he speaks, he leans forward a bit, making the doctor hopeful of him finally sitting down like is normal.

"So you think that you made her up for coping?"

"She said she was too hostile to be a figment of my imagination." His voice is scratchy and he narrows his eyes sadly on the notebook. "She was, at first."

"Was she?"

"Yes, I've told you this a thousand times." He sighs in exasperation and leans back against the wall again with an annoyed look. She exhales sharply in defeat.

"Of course."

"But she wasn't later on. She was... My only true friend. She had nothing to hide from me, nothing to lie about. It was so refreshing."

"Yet, you say, that Melinda was a ghost."

"Yes."

"Do you think you perhaps made her into a ghost because you thought a real person would be too judgmental?" She tilts her head to the side, looking a bit worried and also sincere about his problems. It also made her look fragile and those were the moments which left Dorian wondering if he should actually burden the woman with what he knows.

Everything Melinda taught him is morbid and dark. This woman with a halo of golden hair and a hope for a bright future helping people was nothing like Melinda. She could have easily brushed such things off, but not Miss Riordan.

"No matter if Melinda was a real person or a ghost, she was still judgmental. Being dead didn't make her into a saint."

His harsh tone shuts her up and she presses her lips together as she rethinks her approach. "What do you want me to do, Dorian? I don't understand Melinda," she admits.

"I hardly do as well. I learned over the short time we were friends."

She sighs. "Alright. How about we go over the story again, with more details. This case of yours isn't exactly fresh, I can't ask for new information. But details, Dorian, they might give you an idea of what she meant to you."

He furrows his eyebrows and looks at the toes of his shoes in thought before his dull green eyes return to the woman. "Can I sit for this?"

She smiles in relief. "Of course. I never said you couldn't."