Ghost Boyfriend

notting hill

I've never had nightmares. I've never done drugs or weed. I've never taken alcohol or sniffed stuff so what the hell is wrong with me? I glance back to my family to see the boy hovering suspiciously over them. Now he's close to Mom's ear, trying to make out what she says. "Who are these people?"

Goodness! I hope they don't hear him and freak out.

"Are they real?" he appears by my side and raises a hand as though to stop me from walking past him into the house. I shut my eyes and step away before he gets at me but his hand swishes straight through me, right out the other side. We're both shocked.

"Who are you? Are you alive?" he asks and my panic burns down to anger. "Of course we're alive! I should be the one asking you that,"

"I'm not dead!" he yells. "I'm Mark Thompson and I school at Notting Hill."

Mark? I blink twice to make sure.

I stand still just in case it decides to do something funny while I search all the possible answers to what was going on right now. I've never woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I've never talked to myself while asleep. I've never -

"Peter Collins!" a dry, horrible-pitched voice rings out from across the field as I turn to see a thin wiry white-haired lady on Prada flats making her way over. "Hi Peter. I'm Cheryl from the Southside Tattler. Could you please enlighten us more a bit about your dead boyfriend, Mark Thompson?"

From the corner of my eyes, I see the boy's face morph to reprised panic. "You witch!" he scowls and makes to slap her but of course his palm swishes through.

"He was a calm and handsome young man who caught the eyes of many, males and females alike. Such a kind soul."

"Men?!" the boy cringes, his voice a perfect echo.

"Could you elaborate more on your relationship with him? Your ups and downs, why you both split and what you make out of his death?" the woman is thrusting a microphone up my face while her companion begins filming. I can't help but feel fatigued.

"Well, Mark and I were quite a lovey-dovey item..." I start.

"What?" the boy shrieks, eyeing me. "I don't do men. I don't do anybody!"

I ignore him and the reporter too as I zip off toward the garden once more, the lady screaming (sounds like she's howling) behind me. I can't. I'm losing my mind. I just can't.

The boy reappears by my side now, his face still clouded with shock. "Could you please stop following me? You're dead. There's no way you're alive."

He's fading into translucent white, as though he's losing air - giving up the ghost (he's a ghost) maybe on the borderline of this world to the next. I heave a temporary sigh of relief and he comes back suddenly. "I don't get it. I mean I don't feel dead or - how long have this been going on?"

"A couple of months," I gulp back, lowering my pace and deciding against moving into the garden. I just needed to get away from that stupid reporter. How the f**k do they know I'm even here?

This means one thing. I can't stay in Hampshire anymore. "Your body was never found," I tell the boy. He shakes his head bitterly.

"Makes no sense. The last thing I recall is texting Felix and meeting up Phoenix for sex." as he says this, my cheeks burn with a twinge of jealousy. Mark never told me about his exes. "After that I went home the next morning to sleep and suddenly I find myself here,"

"We're not in Notting Hill anymore," I sit beside a patch of strawberries. "And everyone believes you're dead. It's terrible really, for me too." I feel the tears rush up to my eyes and try to push them back. This is not the right time to be emotional.

He scoffs. "You're not pricy and I was never gay. Yuck. I don't do dicks."

My face blanches with shock but I swallow down my misfortune. In all of my fantasies I'd never imagined Mark's downside to be this cruel. It hurts of course. Just a tad, I've moved on after all.

I've so moved on.

I've watched TV shows like these since I was basically twelve, where ghosts appear to the ones they love and talked, their love building up strongly. Maybe these all is just a matter of time. Maybe Mark is not dead but unconscious and his ghost is here in comfort. This is meant to be, I smile brightly. We're meant to be.

"Why are you smiling?" he asks, visibly irked. I glare at him and snort, throwing my face the other way. "We're still together you know."

"Dude, I'm not a fag. You've gotten this all wrong, I don't roll with dicks."

"Destiny brought us together!" I yell with so much conviction, my head hurts. "And we're meant to be together. That's why you're here. We love each other so much that death can't keep us apart."

He gapes at me in annoyance but I pay him no mind. He'll get to it eventually. We'll always end up together.

"Peter!" I turn my head slightly to see Mum hurrying over. The boy disappears and reappears behind her. "It's getting late. We have to go say goodbye to your aunts and cousins."

"Where are you going?" he snaps at me once Mum's turned her back. "You can't leave yet."

"Of course I'm leaving," I whisper back. "This is all a big family catch-up I'm not even into," I say aloud as Mum glances back at me wierdly. "Who are you talking with?"

"No one!" I jog up to her. Ugh, here comes the best part already. Bidding relatives farewell till the next year of misery.

Finally, something I can do happily.

Surviving an air-kiss with Aunt Priscilla, an eye-roll at Charity and trying to to gag as I hugged Tonya saw me through five minutes. Now, I sit at the back of Dad's sedan, texting Mag.

Peter: XD made it till the end of the day.

Mag: That's fantastic! Anything special happen later on?

Somehow, I manage to stop myself from telling Mag I'm hallucinating Mark. If she hears of it, she'd flip. It'd be the next big story tomorrow at the Press.

New flash: Peter Collins talks with youthful ghost who was once his lover.

So in order to avoid a show, I smoothly erased what I wrote and texted.

Peter: Nothing much. Just chats and we had drinks.

"Who are you texting?" I almost drop my phone in surprise. The boy hovers a metre above me, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. With Mum watching through the rearview mirror, I slip directly behind Dad so she won't see me and whisper. "You've got to STOP doing THAT!"

He's smiling. "It's fun to see you spooked. I need your help. Obviously, since you can see me and we've started in the right foot, you'll understand me better."

"No," I almost shout. "I'm not helping a hallucination. You're dead and there's nothing you can do to me if I refuse," I clutch my head, trying to calm my nerves down.

"I'm not dead!" he snaps. "Stop saying that, I'm as real as you can possibly be."

"Then why are you hovering? Why are you white as chalk and can't hold an object and pass through walls. You're a ghost right? Ghosts do those things."

He's mute. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh right. you know it all," the car bumps into something and I'm hurled back in my seat. "Forget about me helping."

"Help me! Help me!! Help me!!!" he begins to chant as I cup my hands over my ears to shut him out. I swear, he's got the highest pitch anyone could possess and it rings out like a shrill demonic whistle. I scream out loud at last. "Alright! Alright!! I'll help you!!!" I yell. Mom and Dad cast an anxious look back and it takes the mercy of God for Dad not to hit another car or fly off a curb. Dad parks his car in front of some old hotel resort and turns to me.

"Peter, what is wrong? Why did you scream?" his voice is firm but I detect a nervous undertone.

"Oh honey," Mum's almost crying. "He says he keeps hearing voices. Maybe he's stressed out and we shouldn't have forced him to tag along. It's all your fault." she wail.

I sat back, drenched in my own sweat, the boy's face close to Mum's bun smiling at me scathingly. He's pretty stubborn and is succeeding in driving me nuts.

Mum and Dad stares at me in pity like I'm some poor lost three-year-old who's just been found.

"Oh," I feign tiredly. "It's only but a mild headache, and I'm having bad thoughts. It's nothing. Let's get moving before the traffic gets us!"

They sigh and Dad hit the road once more. It's a good thing they can't monopolize my thoughts, I mean what gives? Every three seconds intervals, Mum glances back at me to make sure I'm okay.

I pretend to sleep, gazing out the window and full of positive thoughts. The hallucinating boy appears once more beside me and curtly demands. "Come with me to Notting Hill,"