Ghosted - Chapter 2 - Funeral

It was a week after finding his body. Lifeless. Unblinking. Terrifying. But this was unlike a normal death. He was ran straight through. With no blood, just a hole in his chest. The cops couldn’t even figure it out, or even the circumstances. At first they believed it to be a suicide. Then the single most unbelievable story I had ever heard. He was walking to meet me while buttering toast, had a heart attack, then fell on his knife.

You would have to be the single most idiotic human being in the universe to believe that story. The cops, news outlets, and his family happened to be those people. So here I was brushing my blond hair with faded out red dye, awaiting the funeral of my best friend.

The red tips fit. I had blood on my hands if i just didn’t meet him or something, none of this would have happened. I stood up and stared at myself in the mirror. I had eyebags about as deep as the Mariana trench, despite my efforts to hide it with make up. I fiddled with the collar of the dress my mom gave me.

Funerals were never my thing. I had been to several and all of them felt fake. All the “Sorrys" and “They’re in a better place now”. Only made my blood boil thinking of how you could just erase someone's memory like that.

But here I was. Sitting through a priest's lecture tuning it out. A few speeches went by. Eventually Stacy walked up to the podium. She sniffed and whipped her eye with a handkerchief

“My brother;” she paused, “was just so, so, so kind. And he was never mean or, He was my best friend. We would never fight. I loved him so much and-” She broke, slamming her fist on the table screamed, “and I curse him for ever trying to butter his toast, why why!”

She was balling for a second then collected herself and breathed. She looked perfectly poised and happy as if nothing was wrong, “That is all.”

As she strutted down to her front row seat, I was made grimly aware that it was my turn at giving a speech. I walked towards the podium lightly clutching a few note cards. I stood a whole crowd of people's eyes staring at me.

“I-Uh, I,” I breathed, I was in panic. I had no idea what to say. The speech I had prepared made no sense, and was sure to have a slew of grammatical errors. “Nathan was”

I gasped, staring at the body, my brain flashing between it peacefully in the coffin and the jumbled, scared mess from a week ago. I could feel my face getting hot. My heart, beating in my throat.

I panicked. I ran. I felt the warm tears streaming down my face as I solved into the bathroom. I switched on the cold water in the sink and submerged my face. As I came up for air I breathed in deep. I opened my eyes staring directly into the mirror.

That's when I saw it. A boy. He had shaggy brown hair that was in need of a haircut. He wore a short sleeve flannel over an off white turtleneck. He had a pair of plane jeans and black converse. He almost looked like a normal guy aside from the gaping hole in his torso. He looked like Nathan. Specifically him the night he died.

I screamed, shoving myself against the sink. Hoping whatever sick prank this was would go away.

“Why are you doing this?” I inquired.

“Why are you screaming?” He snapped back.

“Why are you dressed like Nathan!” I retorted.

“I am Nathan,” The boy stated.

I giggled, then changed my tone to be harsh knitting my eyebrows, “What kind of sicko pretends to be someone at his own funeral. Did Stacy put you up to this or something!”

“No Opal it’s really me, and I just woke up like this and-” He was cut off by a knock at the door.

“Opal, we got kind of worried about you,” A tall girl with tanned skin stepped through the door. She had long curly black hair with light brown eyes lined with thick eyeliner. She wore a long black dress reminiscent of something Morticia Addams would wear. She had a resting face that looked like she would fight you if she had the chance, exemplified by lips lined in black lipstick with an eternal pout. To most she would be intimidating, even scary. To me she was Penelope Vishna.

“I thought maybe you could use a check in,” she paused making direct eye contact with me, “It’s not like you to run away.”

“Well you would be wrong about that. But-uh, do you see this!” I gestured heavily at sicko fake Nathan. Him waving awkwardly at Penelope.

“Yep,” She said simply. I smiled, relieved, as she began walking towards me. She grabbed my face and wiped something from under my eye, “Your mascara's running. I wasn’t going to say anything before but,” she shrugged, “You know.”

Penelope backed away, as I stood there my mouth gaping. How did she not see him? And what in the world did that make sicko fake Nathan? She stood there staring with her same going-to-fight-someone face. Which could mean anything from her.

“Aye- uhm, thanks.” I said, my brain still racing about what this meant.

“You’re welcome,” her lips curled into a smile, “Just come back when you're ready. Cool!” She gave two thumbs up as she made her way out the door.

“What was that?” I demanded, my body shaking.

“I don’t know. But whatever that is has been happening this whole week with everyone but you.” He said. I started to believe this really was Nathan.

“So you’re Nathan?” I queried.

“Yep.” He stated.

“So who killed you? Because that dumb toast story is not going to cut it.” I retorted.

“I don’t really know.”

“How do you not know?”

“Well I went to bed on September twenty third and woke up on October first like this.”

“Oh great, so no leads. No knowledge from the dead guy. No confirmation your real. And no reason to believe I'm not insane.”