Until Then

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Kenneth

She's beautiful. It's not just her physical appearance, although I absolutely noticed that too. Her dark hair is long and now that she's home she has it out of the braid and falling freely down her back. Her cheeks are flushed from her hot shower and her perfect lips are moist from the way she'd ran her tongue along it as she watched the TV. No, it's not just her stunning appearance, it's her soul.

I wonder what it would have been like if I'd have met her before I was killed. I'm curious if she would have even registered in my young male brain. I would have noticed her beauty on the outside, but I never gave much thought to what a girl looked like on the inside. Knowing she gives so much of herself to her small patients makes my heart feel warm and tingly. It's like looking at an angel as she sleeps curled up on her couch.

I know I have no right to be in her place and it wasn't my plan when I saw her leaving the hospital to walk with her home, but I just couldn't get enough. She's different than the other girls I've known. She stops to help people if they need it even though she's clearly exhausted from her shift with the children. The girls I knew when I was alive were kind too, but I don't think any of them would even be aware of the struggles of other people the way she is. She seems to have some sort of internal compass for finding the weak and helping them whether it's to open a door or grab something off the ground someone has dropped. It's fascinating to watch.

Her eyes are finally closed and her breath is evening out. I'm sitting in a chair in the corner. I didn't follow her into the bathroom, or watch her getting dressed in her pajamas because that felt too personal, but I loved watching her relax. Now I know I need to get back to my friends and my business here if I ever want to go home to be with my dad, but I can't take my eyes off of her.

I think she had felt me too. She looked right at me as I stood in her living room and watched her walk down the hall towards her bathroom. Then I'd heard her ask if someone was here and my heart felt so full of hope that maybe our connection isn't completely one-sided. Now I just wish I could talk to her. I stand up and walk around the small space of her living room, trying to learn more about her. The only thing I find is a picture of her with an elderly woman, and a huge collection of books.

I take a minute to run my finger alone the spines of the well-loved novels on her bookshelf. She's a romance fan, and some of the titles make me laugh. There are a few rows that look as if the books in them are older than she or I are. A few are resting on their backs in the open area of the shelf and I have to wonder why every old romance had to have a muscular man with an open shirt standing precariously on something—maybe a pirate ship or a rock—and the girl is hanging from him in some way. The guy isn't even looking at the poor girl as she stares up at him with big doe eyes, gripping him as if only he can save her. Cheesy...so very cheesy.

I find one book that has its cover folded back. It had to have been someone's favorite at one time. I can see a name written inside the cover and it makes me curious when I read Faye Blair instead of Quinn. I take a step back and look at the whole collection. I realize it isn't really one collection at all; it's two very distinct collections with a few decades between the publication dates of each. Faye must be the owner of the older romances while Quinn prefers the newer material.

Interestingly enough, romances are not all that Quinn has on her shelves. There is also a row of thrillers and science fiction. Perhaps the most intriguing are the books that fill her top shelf. She must have over twenty books on death and dying. Everything from the quick, short stories written by people who have claimed to have died and come back, to a bigger, thicker book titled "The Tibetan Book of the Dead."

She wiggles on the couch and I turn my head to see what's happening. The blanket she's pulled over her feet is slipping and I can see the small goose bumps on her arms letting me know she's getting cold. I haven't tried to move anything yet, but I can't resist the thought that I need to move her blanket and make her more comfortable. The little boy in the hospital had moved the pin so it must be possible.

I grip it in my hand and while I can't really feel it on my skin, I'm able to pull it up around her shoulders so her entire body is covered. I realize it's a thin quilt, hand sewed with tiny squares of colorful fabric. There has to be a story behind why she has an apartment composed of items girls her age would like and items only girls decades older than her would appreciate. I want to hear the story. I want to know everything about her, but have no way of asking. Before releasing the blankets, I lean in close and tell her softly, "Goodnight, Quinn."

As I take a step back she sighs, her eyes fluttering but not opening completely. Her voice is soft and sleepy as she answers, "Goodnight." 

****What do you think so far? Writing paranormal is different for me and I know many of you were reluctant to read a story with paranormal characters. Are you enjoying it or still feeling reluctant? ****Don't forget to vote****