Sort of Dead

37 - Aftermath (Do The Math)

Turns out, it takes a lot.

Okay, so basically, we sat around for hours on end. Or it might have been days. I have no idea. We didn’t deliberate, we didn’t debate. We just sat, stared at the floor and rarely at each other. Not talking. Doing pretty much nothing, as a matter of fact.

Es recounted all about how it had been so wonderful touching those butterflies and rainbows on Witch Moon Day. I couldn’t get her to shut up. Is there a stapler for spirit-mouths? Do let me know if you know of any dealer. I would really appreciate that.

Anyhow, back to the point. I cried, wailed, sobbed and wept, exclusively in that order. I didn’t eat anything for a long time. (Well, I might have accidentally put a few Skittles in my mouth, but I don’t know about that.)

I won’t get into my sad story again. You know how it goes. It was same with Dad dying as it had been with Mom, only this time, there was a big red frowning cloud who liked to call himself Guilt that was following me everywhere I went. I wonder why.

Hm. Strange.

Who're we kidding, what about my life is not strange? So let’s give this a green flag and move on.

Dad couldn’t have a funeral. His death, at least for the time being, had to remain "classified". Uncle told the firm Dad worked in that he was retiring. They must’ve asked what, why, how, at such an early age, yada yada yada – but if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all this, it’s that my Uncle is a solid liar. And with the mounds of cash he has in his possession, a big influencer as well.

In fact, you know what? I’m not going to call him my Uncle at all. He doesn’t deserve that title. “Uncle” is an endearing term. I’m just going to call him Mr. Om from here on. He’s nothing more to me than my mother’s sibling now.

Yes. Very appropriate. Roger that.

So, this Mr. Om won’t even let my Dad have a funeral. Or even let me see his – Vamps, it’s hard to say that! His . . . corpse.

Why, you ask? I did, too. Mr. Om says seeing his body might trigger me again into some kind of monstrous frenzy. ‘And we don’t want that to happen now, do we, Mar?’ he said, putting on a fake smile. His eyes told me loud and clear he’d been bawling out bucketfuls as well.

‘No,' I said. ‘No, we don’t. And don’t call me that.’

‘What, Mar?’

'Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Call you what, Mar?’

‘That.’

'Pardon?’

'Just . . . try not to talk to me, alright?’

Was he hurt by me saying this? His eyes said yes; affirmative, sir.

Did I feel bad for him? Well, let me reverse the card. Did he feel bad about lying to me all these years?

Well, yeah, he probably did. But that’s not the point. You know what I mean. Right? Oh, nevermind.

I was trying to get used to living all alone. Ditched school a couple of days. No one to scold me. Dad's death was to be kept a secret until Uncle figured out a way to make it seem an accident or something. I have no clue how he will manage to pull that off. Money does what even supernatural powers can’t, I suppose.

Mr. Om sent a butler to the house to be with me twenty-four-seven, which is just great. Sarcasm very much intended.

First my powers won’t let me die. Now these guys aren’t even going to let me live in peace.

I’d lost all hope. This was my life now. Never thought I’d miss the days when Gaba beat me to pulps. A spirit to cheer me up occasionally. A butler and sometimes a maid who kept a ridiculously – and awfully – close eye on my every move. An Uncle whom I’ve denounced from the title altogether. Two human friends, both trying their best to keep our secret a secret.

Well, one of those human friends – the smarter, nerdier, prettier one – actually did a lot more than just keep the secret.

She had an incredibly dangerous idea in her upper compartment (I mean her brain, do the math). And I was all on board.

As always, thanks for reading!