"Good morning, dear" Thomas greeted even though he knew she couldn't hear him. Old habits die hard. The ghost was so used to saying good morning's to his wives when they woke up. A sad smile displayed across the corner of his lips at the memories. It took Thomas a while until he realized he didn't miss being alive. When he was alive, he was always in his sister's shadow, abused and manipulated into doing so many horrible things. What he missed was being able to make people smile whether it'd be just him offering them a hand to help carry their stuff, holding a door open for them, or just being kind. Even though most of his actions led to ladies falling in love with him, and most of them ended up dead by his and his sister's hands. It just felt good for Thomas to be kind because when he shown kindness, unlike Lucille, he at least genuinely meant it at that particular moment. Guess he never really was alive to begin with. Just breathing. Was breathing.
He watched the girl sprawled on his bed, hoped he didn't look like a creepy weirdo. The weather seemed nice today, as nice as it could be, or in other words: gloomy with no sunshine, but at least it wasn't snowing like it always was around here. Thomas shifted his glance from the window and back to her. She woke up now, but seemed lack of motivation to ever get herself out of bed or to even move. Lack of motivation to live. Her eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling, dull and emotionless. But Thomas could see so much sadness in those brown orbs. Clearly, sleep couldn't erase whatever it was she was dealing with out of her mind.
She moved like a ghost, almost like she just slowly floated aimlessly through the existence. Pretty ironic. The real ghost stood still as the girl shuffled to the bathroom connected to the bedroom, hair all messy and eyes half closed. When she closed the door behind, Thomas lowered himself onto the bed, his bed. His eyes casting out the window, and he pictured himself standing there having his last goodbye with Edith. Tears rolled down his cold skin, and he didn't wipe them away, didn't even know he was crying silently. Too lost in the bitter memories.
20 minutes later, he heard the door open and instinctively turned to look. The girl re-entered the room with her wet hair and only her underwear: bra and panties. Thomas felt his cheeks burning red and quickly looked the other way. He tugged at his collar and pulled on his sleeve, suddenly felt like he shouldn't be in here as the girl was busy changing without a clue she was never alone. She's got a perfect body that any man wouldn't mind taking in the view, but not Thomas. He would never take advantage of the situation, no matter how tempting. He was too gentleman for that.
"Thomas Sharpe" The ghost almost couldn't believe his ears when he heard his name coming from the girl's lips. Wait, she could see him?! Completely shocked and dumbstruck, he whipped around the vanity table and saw her sitting there now in white dress with her back facing him. Thomas felt like he got hit by a lightning strike as he slowly raised on his feet and walked toward her. She still hadn't turned around, just looking at something on her lap. The fact she was unbelievable calm and not at all surprised by his presence surprised Thomas beyond limits.
"You... you can see me?" No response. She didn't even lift her face up.
"Who are you?" He asked again, but his question went unanswered. So he took another careful step forward, and that's when he got close enough to earn himself the answer.
She found something of his. In her hand was an old, dusty notebook - a diary. His diary. God, he'd almost forgotten he had it considering it's been remaining inside the drawer for forever. Or to be exact, he hadn't touched it since he died. There was his name written in fancy cursive letters at the front, and she read it out loud. As he looked at the book over her shoulder, he couldn't help but smile sadly thinking about all the memories living in those pages. Though he liked the way she held his thing: so gentle and careful as though it was something so valuable to her. And suddenly, Thomas dreaded to think what she would think of him if she were to read what's inside. What they did to those poor women. What he did, written in Thomas Sharpe's perspective, the infamous murderer himself.
