Ghost Whispers |-/ Joshler

en·vis·age

/ənˈvizij/
verb
conceive of as a possibility or a desirable future event; form a mental picture of.

The duffel bag sat on the bed, open. Inside were pictures of his family, his basketball sneakers, the Chapstick, and the sweater that he always wore when he cuddled with Josh.

It hurt Tyler that he had nothing to remember Josh by than some stick of lip lube and one of his own articles of clothing. If he had been alive, if he had been human, there could have been some sort of exchange.

Tyler sat on the bed with the bag and went through it, remembering little moments he shared with Josh. The sweater was wool, thick and warm. Tyler slid it on over his white T-shirt and sighed.

He fell back on the mattress, arms wrapped around his body tightly. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Josh.

He's here, he's hovering over me....smiling.

And he's coming closer for a kiss, eyes closing as I do the same. Our lips meet for the first time, no extra power involved. It's just us as humans.

He tastes like strawberries, like strawberry cereal to be precise. It's sweet, it's long, and it's perfect.

He smiles against my lips, pulling away to look at me. With an ever growing-grin, he says, "I'm gonna get you out of here, Tyler. I can save you again."

Tyler opens his eyes, gasping for air. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep, and his dinner had been served to him.

It sat on the floor on a plastic tray. It was a pathetic excuse for food, with his pills sitting next to it in a separate little cup. He hadn't been taken off his old meds, he'd run out the prescription until the ward have him a new script.

He sat up, the small window about 7 feet off the floor showing nighttime outside. It was his second night here and he had already filled the empty room with his own sadness.

Sliding off the bed, he took a seat in front of the tray. The small plastic spork snapped almost the instant he tried to cut the processed meat with the side, and that was the breaking point.

He threw the pieces across the room and kicked the tray, pulling his knees up to his chest. Through bleary eyes, he looked out at the mess he had made.

The sauce served on the side of the meat was splattered across the floor, collecting in a coagulated puddle.

Only one tear dropped onto his kneecap before he crawled on his knees over to the pool of tan-colored sauce, sinking his hands into the liquid.

He rose to his feet and slapped his hands on the wall, tears streaming down his face. With a wide sweep of his arms, he wrote down words that only seemed to make him cry even more.

Come back, Josh.

"We sedated him, doctor. He's still under, and the mess has been cleaned up."

Dr. Ulka rocked back and forth on his heels, eyes scanning the ceiling. "And what did he write on the walls?"

"Some of it had crusted up and fallen off the walls, but Ian said it was something along the lines of, 'Come back, Josh.'"

"Josh? Oh ho," Dr. Ulka chuckled. "This just keeps getting better and better."

"What does, sir?" The nurse asked. He warily shifted his weight from one foot to another, scared of the terror-inducing man in front of him and what he could do.