EVEN WHEN I WAS ALIVE, I WAS A GHOST

Even when I was alive I was a ghost. I haunted the school halls without so much as a sideways glance from anyone. No one was ever especially mean to me but I didn't exactly have many friends either. I’d eat lunch in the library so I could look like I was studying instead of sitting alone. People used to look right through me like I wasn't even there. Not just the students, teachers too. I’d always be seated in the back corner where they could ignore me. I’d get asked a question maybe once every half-term. My grades were average, nothing special enough to write home about but also not bad enough to warrant any extra attention than the little I already got. On parent’s evenings most teachers had to check their files for my name right in front of Mum and Dad’s face. There's students I’d shared a classroom with since we were four who didn't even know my name. Even my parents never really saw me. They liked my grades but didn’t love them. Dad always used to say ‘everyone loves a trier’ and God knows I tried. I auditioned for every school play, every sports team, every band, book club, chess club. I never got into any of them. Dad said it was fine that I wasn’t as gifted as some of the other kids, that my talents just hadn’t revealed themselves yet but I could tell he was just as disappointed as I was when I didn’t make the cut for the eighth year in a row. Mum told me I was trying to be good at too many things and to just become really good at one thing. I tried everything. Painting, dancing, gymnastics, singing, writing, make-up, acting, maths, science, cooking. I was OK at most of them, bad at some, above average at others. I didn’t really enjoy any of them all that much. She’d always say ‘oh well, you’ll get the next one’. I couldn’t imagine having such an unremarkable kid. Like I said, I was a ghost. Average, boring, uninteresting. 

No one mourns a girl who was average, boring and uninteresting. We don't get a memorial at our locker or a special assembly or a candlelit vigil or a Facebook page. We get a one line sentence at the end of the daily bulletin that no one reads anyway. 

Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. No one’s fault. No one to blame. Just rotten luck. Story of my life really. The doctors told my parents I wasn’t in pain and it would’ve been over really quick, not that I could remember. I only figured out I was a ghost when I was able to pass right through my front door. I shouted at my Dad who seemed blissfully unaware I had even come home. I tried to grab his arm and show him I was there but I couldn't grip him, couldn't hold him. I yelled until my voice was hoarse, trying to hug him. I screamed ‘Dad I'm here, I'm here Dad’. 

Then the hospital rang. 

Turns out I'd passed out a few feet from my bus stop on the way home. Campbell Fewster from class 8b2 tried to do CPR until the ambulance arrived but it wasn't enough. When I concentrate really hard I can just about picture his face in my final moments. His eyes screwed up all tightly, humming ‘Stayin’ Alive’ under his breath for the rhythm whilst he pressed against my chest. 

Dad sat on Mum’s beloved magnolia cashmere sofa with his hand over his mouth for the next nine minutes before he finally started to cry. Mum came home not long after that. She didn't park the car and left the engine running. Her make up was smudged and her breathing was erratic. She ran through the door and they threw their arms around each other. They hugged and wept for a half hour before they drove to the hospital. Obviously neither of them noticed I had slipped into the back seat. I laid there like I did when I was a kid hoping it was some car seat nightmare and they were about to carry me inside the house and put me to bed.

She screamed when she saw my body laid on that table. They both went in to identify me. I was able to look down at myself. My own corpse was staring up at me with these rolled, white eyes. That's when it finally settled in. There was no coming back. I would never talk to mum or dad again. I was dead. Very dead.

Campbell was in the waiting room with someone from the hospital’s counselling team. His eyes were red and his nose was running as he sniffled into a crushed up and torn tissue. My parents briefly stopped to speak to him.

“I-I-I-I’m so sorry. I d-d-did the CPR like they showed us in-in-in-in-in-in class. H-h-h-er lips went all-all-all blue. I called the-the ambulance but-but-but I'm really s-s-s-sorry.” He was crying too intensely for his words to make sense.

Mum hugged him tightly and tried to muffle her own cries. Dad thanked him for trying, shook his hand and offered him a ride home. 

“Th-th-that’s OK Mr Mor-mor-timor. My-my-my Nanna is on-on-on her way.” He lied. As soon as my parents were out of sight, he took a different exit and sat on the side of the curb checking his phone every five minutes for the next four hours until a tattooed man in a beat up rust bucket picked him up.

I didn't go home that night, I couldn't stand to hear them weeping anymore. I wanted to apologise for hurting them but I couldn’t. I stayed in the morgue watching some gloved creeper cut my chest open and poke around inside me. All my organs were on display. It was so gross. That's how I learnt ghosts can't throw up. 

I was dead, that’s how all good stories start. I panicked for about the first three hours thinking of the homework assignments I wouldn’t hand in and how I never gave that one girl her hair bobble back after mine snapped during Netball tryouts or how I’d wasted a week’s allowance on hair dye for the summer holidays that I’d now never get a chance to use. I realised that I had never told Mum and Dad what I wanted at my funeral. The flowers, the music, the dress, any of it. They didn’t do a bad job all things considered. It was maybe a little too ‘celebration of life-y’ rather than ‘funeral-y’ for my tastes. I would’ve gone with something more classic like a movie funeral. But I understood they probably had more going on than trying to remember what their recently deceased twelve-year-old’s favourite poem was. I went around with them for all the arrangements and sat with them whilst they called around the family. Mum was fine as long as she kept busy. As long as there was laundry to be folded or meals to be made or dishes to be washed. She only cried and cursed God when she had time to rest and sit. Dad was a mess all the time. He would stand at the sink and stare out of the window for hours at a time. He stopped eating and started sleeping all day. He started smoking again and drank a lot for the first six months. He was drunk at my funeral and slurred over my eulogy. 

Sometime around what would’ve been my fourteenth birthday they had the God of all fights, screaming, crying, punching walls. They got it all out. He started going to his meetings again, they both started going to therapy and got back to work. I’ve been dead for four years now. To the day. July 2nd. Mum and Dad are doing better. They still get sad sometimes but they can at least say my name now. They talk about me like a person who was alive, not a corpse in the ground. They laugh telling stories about me and tear up when they accidentally refer to me in the present tense. They hold each other tighter at night now that I'm just a bunch of photos on the walls.

It’s not that they didn’t love each other when I was alive. They did and they loved me too. We just never did anything with the three of us. Someone always had to be left out. They never made time for each other, never talked deeply, slept in separate rooms. They were married but not together. I guess my sudden cardiac arrest saved their marriage so at least something positive came of it. They hadn’t changed my bedroom yet which was good for me considering I still spent most of my time there. I wasn’t haunting them. I didn’t write messages on mirrors or slam doors and hide the cutlery. I mostly just sat in there. I played my music when they were out and watched my films and programmes. I sat at the table and watched them eat my favourite meals. When Mum accidentally set three places at the table, I waited until her back was turned and removed one of them so she didn't realise. Call it friendly haunting, gaslighting for their own good.

Sometimes if I got bored I went for a walk. I checked in on Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa didn’t really remember me anymore and Grandma had so much going on dealing with him that she didn’t think of me until it was Christmas and she found herself decorating gingerbread houses without her special little elf and realised she’d bought my favourite kind of sweet and not hers even though she’s the one who was going to be eating it now.

Heck, when I got really bored I went back to school just for a change of scenery. I would’ve been sixteen this year, going into year twelve. My classmates were all finishing their GCSEs and buying prom outfits. But not me. I did go to my prom, technically. I found the venue and sat at the side watching them all dancing and spinning and secretly sipping vodka when the teachers weren’t looking. Max Roach and Selena Miles got Prom King and Queen as we all knew they would even when we were twelve. They were a cute couple. He was unintelligent but harmless and she was popular but never snooty about it. She smiled to social reject and best friend the same way. She deserved it. She looked so beautiful. They both did. He had on a red tie to match the deep crimson of her tight, lace gown. 

I think I probably would’ve worn something similar, I was skinnier than her with smaller boobs but I might have been a late bloomer if my heart didn’t explode. I always looked good in pastels though — pink mainly. Yeh, I would’ve gone in pastel pink. I might have even had a boyfriend to take me with a matching tie.

The only person I didn't see at our prom was Campbell. Not long after I died he changed schools and his family moved away. The rumour in the canteen was he blamed himself for not being able to save me and that coming back to this school and to that bus stop was too much for him to deal with. He had developed PTSD or something. I didn't believe that. He didn't even know me. It wasn't as if he had lost a close friend. I never wanted him to feel guilty. I thought about him a lot. I was no one and he was no one yet he went through all that effort to try and save me. He was probably the only person who actually paid attention during that first aid tutorial. If it had been him who had dropped behind me, I wouldn't have known what to do and it would’ve been me blubbering to his parents that I did nothing to help.

With all my classmates moving onto better things there was no real reason for me to linger at school anymore, there was barely anyone left that I recognised and my existence ever being there had been wiped clean. My parents kept busy organising charity fun runs and karaoke nights in my name in the spirit of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy awareness. I don’t think they ever raised all that much money because there was nothing particularly sad or sympathetic about how I died. If I had been mauled by a pitbull or stabbed in the street or hit by a car going too fast then maybe they would’ve done better. But for some average kid having a totally random health issue that affects literally thousands of other average kids, I kind of understood why no one really cared.

But there was no real reason for me to keep hanging around this place anymore. Being a ghost was profoundly dull. Something had always dwelled on my mind. What they always say in the movies about ghosts having unfinished business. I died at twelve, I hadn’t even started any business, nevermind left anything unfinished. Still I found myself racking my mental inventory trying to find any thread left untied. Besides, even if it was a load of bull, I needed something for myself. Even ghosts need hobbies. It soon became obvious what the only loose end in my death was: Campbell Fewster. The boy who almost saved me.

I decided I was going to track down Campbell Fewster. He would be my first project as an independent ghost trying to find meaning in her afterlife. I didn't really know Campbell all that well. He was in my year but none of my classes, we just got on and off at the same bus stop. He had thin hair and weasel like features and big glasses that basically made him a walking punching bag. He had acne and asthma and a stutter, everything that makes secondary school unbearable. He didn't live with his parents. He moved in with his grandparents sometime during year 4, there were social workers at school and police and everything. Even if I hadn't died in his arms on the side of the road I imagine he would've switched schools eventually. It had always nagged in the back of my mind what had happened to him. Besides, I was bored of watching my Mum and Dad look through baby photos and commenting on how fat I was.

This was where I encountered my first problem. How on Earth was I going to track down a boy I didn't know with no skills in tracking down people? The smartest thing I could think of doing was start with what I knew. He moved schools. 

I did not consider phasing through the walls of a school building after hours as a legitimate act of breaking and entering. I was dead, how else was I going to get in? Nothing was broken or damaged, I simply found an alternative front door. Neither was it hacking into a computer if I used the correct and appropriate log-in, how I came to know the log-in was ultimately irrelevant. Maybe I had spent a few afternoons moving the papers of the school’s admin staff just to watch them get all in a tizzy. The student files were surprisingly easy to access, probably a little too easy. 

Campbell Donald Fewster 

DoB: 17/02/2003

Note: transferred to an alternative home learning programming

Great, exactly what he needed, to become a homeschooled loner. There was an address only a few streets over from me which made sense given we rode the same school bus since we were practically infants. It was a good starting point if nothing else. 

It was already dark outside by the time I got to his old address. The house was a shack to put it lightly. You smelt the damp before you saw it. This whole side of town was like it. You didn’t have to worry about the nerighbour’s kids crying all night keeping you awake, the constant sirens and street brawls did that. I don’t think I ever went there whilst I was alive. In fact, I’m pretty sure Mum forbade me so much as utter the street name. Still number 26 was no different from the other houses. 

The windows were all fogged up and the door hinges were rusted. The inside was at least homely. There had been an attempt at furnishing which made it look almost livable. Landlord approved sage green carpet, a battered sofa and a small TV. The TV was on but almost too quietly to hear. There was a woman, young but with the body of someone much older, asleep, laid out on the second-hand black sofa, still in a waitress uniform, one shoe still hanging on. I scouted the house room by room, not that there were many rooms. The kitchen was a bomb site of paper plates and plastic cutlery and the bathroom was no better. There were two young girls asleep in bunk beds in a cramped bedroom but no Campbell. Given how he used to come to school in unwashed clothes with unbrushed hair, it didn’t surprise me that he lived somewhere like this. 

On top of the cluttered kitchen table was a heavy cardboard box crudely labelled with Sharpie ‘PREVIOUS OWNER’. It was filled with the tatty little nick nacks that always get left behind or misplaced when you move house. Through crumpled pieces of paper with random words scrawled on them, a handful of half-used toiletries, there was a picture frame. It was cheap but painted gold to look fancy. There was the tattooed man from that day at the hospital and a little boy with Campbell’s eyes. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the man that day but seeing them next to each other there was no doubt this skinhead in heavy leather with black crosses stitched to his sleeves was that sweet boy’s father. The resemblance was uncanny. 

I could make out the half-swastika on the back of his Dad’s hand. There was a lot of that sort in Springhollow those days. They used to gather in this one grubby little club on the edge of town near the trailers. It seemed as good as anywhere else to continue my search. I was dead, a literal ghost. They couldn’t see me even if they tried. I wouldn’t be in any danger. I was never that reckless when I was alive, I didn’t even walk under ladders, now I was walking into Nazi bars.

Your feet don’t get sore when you’re not skin and bones anymore which was good for me given I was on the complete wrong side of town. It was coming close to midnight by the time I finally reached the appropriately named White King Gentleman’s Club though I doubted there was anything especially gentle or manly about the company kept here. Even from just the outside it looked dodgy with dark windows and half-scrubbed graffiti of the word ‘scum’. Sure enough almost as soon as I stepped in I was greeted by a group of skinhead crazies heckling a news report of a young woman talking about rape prevention on a tiny black and white TV on a little round table. The stench of cheap beer hit me like a train. Flags draped the walls, photos of riots were framed like a hall of fame and a thick layer of cigarette smoke loomed in the air visibly. It was grosser than gross. Even the carpet was sticky.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a boy no older than sixteen, sitting alone on a small stool at the opposite end of the room looking at a glass beer bottle as if it were filled with cyanide. His dark red hair was cropped short but visible. He was twitching in his seat and jumping with each new yell or cackle. His jacket didn’t have any patches and hung loose on him. Campbell Fewster looked on the brink of tears.

Of all the circumstances I had envisioned in my head of meeting Campbell again, that was not on my list. 

The man from the photo stood up from the huddled crowd and shouted over to his son.

“Lad, stop pouting like a little bitch and get over here.”

Campbell tensed all over as he stood and approached them with his head low and his hands fidgeting over each other. His Dad wrapped his arm around him and pulled him close against him before pointing at the TV.

“Tight cunted little lasses like this want men like us to be silent, celibate little pansies. They don’t care about men, do they?” He pulled Campbell’s hands apart and nudged him to stand tall.

“N-n-n-n…”

“Come on, spit it out, we worked on this.”

“N-no.”

He slapped Campbell’s back loudly. “And what are we going to do about it?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Think you do, lad.”

“We sh-sh-show them what it means to be a-a-a-a man.” His stutter was even worse than it was when we were kids. He was terrified. 

“What kind of man?”

“A real one.”

“Good lad.” He patted the top of his head before dismissing him back to his corner with a hard shove to the back of his head. “Dumb slut was probably gagging for it. Still as long as it's still nice and pink, I’m sure some poor twat won’t mind sharing.”

The crowd laughed loudly and I wished I had fists still capable of punching.

Campbell sheepishly shuffled to the toilets at the back of the club. I followed him. He stood at the sink, half doubled over, hyperventilating. He squatted down, pressing his forehead against the cold germ-ridden porcelain frantically trying to catch his breath. Poor kid looked like he was about to throw up. 

Everyone at school knew there was something messed up about Campbell Fewster. He barely ever spoke, was always late, never came to any clubs or extracurriculars. Something just inherently sad followed him. But this, I never would've guessed. He was a ghost at school like I was, the only difference being I didn’t have the target on my back of being a foster freak. 

When he stood up, he wiped his eyes, exhaled deeply and turned for the door. His gentle brown eyes met mine and his face dropped like he’d just seen a ghost. He got paler as his jaw hung slack.

“Wh-wh-what the fuck?”

He saw me. He. Saw. Me. “Campbell? Campbell, can you see me?” I stepped towards him as he stumbled back. “Holy heck, you can see me, can’t you?”

“What is this? I-I-I-I-I…”

“No one has ever been able to see me before,” I said more to myself than to him.

“You’re Beck Mortimor. You’re dead. I-I-I-I-I watched you d-d-die.”

I felt a strange excitement before the confusion kicked in. He was looking right at me, he could talk to me, he could hear me. “I was right, it’s you, you’re my unfinished business.”

“How are you real?”

“I don’t know.”

“B-b-b-but ghosts aren’t…”

“So are vampyres and werewolves and a bunch of other stuff.”

“What?” He was no longer even attempting to keep his voice down.

“Don’t worry you only have to deal with ghosts. Specifically one ghost. Specifically me.”

“What the f-f-fuck is happening to me-e?” He wrapped his hands over his head and pulled his knees up to his face. “You’re not re-re-real.”

“Lad? What the fuck are you doing in there?” His Dad pushed the door open, stomping in. “What the fuck are you down there for?”

“I-I-I-I-I-I…”

“I-I-I-I,” his father mocked him. “Come on, they're laughing at you out there.”

Campbell’s eyes flickered over to me. I shrugged, leaning against one of the sinks. I was still shocked beyond shocked that he could actually see me.

“Answer me when I speak to you, you little shit.”

“I slipped.”

“Slipped?”

Campbell nodded. “I think maybe I drank too much.”

“You haven’t swallowed a single mouthful all night.”

“I think I just wan-want to go home.”

“This is about tomorrow isn’t it? You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“N-n-no, Sir.”

“You’ll be fine. You’re my boy, it’s in your blood.” He approached Campbell, squatting down to his level before grabbing the back of his head and forcing their foreheads together. As if on instinct, Campbell raised his hands to his chest and gasped. “Don’t let me down, lad.”

“I won’t, S-s-sir.”

“Good lad. Go take a walk. The lads are getting some girls in, we might have a little fun back at home.”

“OK.”

“Now get off the fucking floor.” He playfully but forcefully slapped Campbell’s cheek.

“Yes, Sir.” He scrambled to his feet and pushed past his father, almost sprinting from the room, not giving me so much as a backwards glance.

His Dad stood in front of one of the mirrors, pulling a teeny tiny plastic bag out of his coat pocket. It really was just like the movies. He tipped what I could only assume was cocaine on the back of his hand, snorting it without hesitation.

Another one of his motley crew came in, leaning in the doorway. A full on bleached blonde with eyes like sapphires. “That lad of yours is a coward.”

“He’s just nervous about initiation.”

“You know we can’t let him in if he bottles it.”

“He’ll do it. He’s my son, isn’t he?”

“Wilf, he ain’t one of us. He’s not got the guts for it.”

“He’ll do it.”

“He’s chickenshit, Wilf and you know it.”

Wilf crossed the room in two steps, pinning his friend up against the wall by the neck. “I say he’s ready, he’s ready.”

“And what happens when he can’t do it?”

“If he doesn’t do it, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Bullshit.”

He smacked him hard against the tiled wall. “You calling me a liar? You questioning my devotion to the cause? I’ll put a bullet right between his fucking eyes.” He let the man go and stormed out of the bathroom.

I had to find Campbell. I phased through the walls and saw him, jacket now slung over his arm, practically running down the road.

“Campbell, stop!” I chased after him.

“You’re not real. Beck Mortimor is dead.”

“I am not denying that.”

He kept running and ignoring me until we reached the playground. He couldn’t run anymore. He threw his jacket on the ground, rested his hands on his knees and breathed manically. I caught up pretty quickly. I saw the inhaler hanging out of his jacket pocket and handed it to him as he wheezed and spluttered. With pure fear in his eyes, he took it from me and pumped a few puffs into his mouth until he could stand normally again.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m seeing dead people.”

“I think you should probably sit down.”

I hadn’t been to these rusted, death trap swings in years and by the look of small joy on his face when he began to swing his legs neither had he.

“So you’re really real?” He asked once he had caught his breath.

“Yeh.”

“And ghosts are real?”

“Yep.”

“Are you going to-going to help me?”

“I think we can help each other.”

“Unfinished business, right? Because I-I couldn’t save you?”

“Right.”

He didn’t look in my direction when he spoke to me. I think I was so caught up in how shocked I was that he could see me that I didn’t consider how frightening it must be to see the ghost of your former classmate.

“I don’t want to be like my Dad.”

“You were removed right? Like years ago.”

“Ye-yeh but it was only meant to be for a few months. Reckless endangerment, or-or-or-or something. I don’t remember, there was a lot of stuff around that time.”

“Why are you still with him?”

“I don’t have money and I don’t have friends and I never fin-ished school, I don’t have anywhere else to go. But I’m not like them. I-I-I always told myself I would leave before my in-in-initi-initiation.”

“Which is?”

“Tomorrow.”

“No, I mean what do you have to do?”

“I-I…” he gave up and reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a small but sharp knife.

“Do you have to hurt someone?”

He nodded.

“Do you have to…kill them?”

He nodded, closing his eyes. “Then I’ll be part of the family. But I don’t want, I don’t want…”

“You’re better than that.”

“H-h-how do you know?”

“Because if you were actually capable of something like that, you would’ve walked right over me.”

“Do you know why I left school?” His voice softened.

“PTSD or something.”

“Some boys from year 9 made po-posts that I did nasty things to you.”

Somehow this rumour had bypassed me. I leaned in. “Like what?”

“That I-I-I-I played with you be-before the ambulance got to us and I-I-I didn’t I-I-I promise.”

“I know you didn’t, I was there.”

“Dad’s going to get one of the b-boys who made the posts to be my initiation. I have to-to-to-to…” he dropped his head. “If I don’t do it then he’ll…”

“Kill you, I know, I heard..”

“What?”

“It’s what he said in the toilets after you left. One of the other guys was making fun of you, saying you were too chickenshit and he said if you failed, he’d kill you himself.”

He paused for a moment, hanging his head. I felt almost bad being the one who had to break it to him. “Why-why would he say that?”

“Don’t stab the messenger.”

“I can’t go home, I-I-I-I can’t. When he has girls over he-he-he-he always makes me…he-he-he watches to-to-to make sure that I-I-I…I don’t want to do it. I ha-hate him.”

“How interesting.” A voice came from the darkness. The guy from the bathroom, I recognised him. Smug face, snub nose.

Campbell stood quickly. “What are you-you-you-you…”

“Thought we’d pay you a little visit before the big day.” He stepped into the dim streetlight beam ahead of us with five of his skinhead cronies at his side. “You’re not thinking of backing out are you?”

“N-n-n-no.”

“No, what?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to anyway? Your boyfriend?” He laughed.

“J-j-just myself.”

“You talk to yourself a lot, Fewster?”

“S-s-sometimes.”

“If your Dad weren’t who your Dad is, we probably would’ve kicked your head into next week the first time we saw you. We don’t want you here, Fewster. You don’t believe in anything.” From behind his back he held a crowbar which he tapped against his hand. “If you fuck up tomorrow, we’re going to bury you instead.”

“Wh-wh-what are you going to do with that?”

“It would be a shame if you didn’t turn up for your initiation, wouldn’t it?”

“P-p-p-please.”

“Awwww, is the little pussy scared?”

“D-d-d-don’t do-do-do-”

The crowbar came down hard over his arm. Enough to knock him but he caught himself with his leg. Bless the kid, he raised his fists to protect his head, as if to say “come at me!”, which they unfortunately did. A foot crashed down on the side of his knee, driving it to the floor with a scream. Campbell attempted a punch. From how he half knelt, half stood, if he had hit something then it would have been a polite shove. One of them seemed to have taken the attempt to heart and decided to show Campbell how it's done. I was worried his neck broke with how much his head spun. I think for the briefest moment he passed out when his arms lowered slightly and he began to tilt forward. His fall was quickened as the heel of a boot was driven into the small of his back, he crashed to the ground in a bundle of limbs and a grunt from the air being pushed out of his lungs like a balloon deflating. Flat on the ground, all of them decided they wanted a piece. Boots rained down on him, the crowbar clanging against his shins. He covered the back of his head and curled into a ball, leaving his back and legs to take the brunt. The occasional painful blow made him flinch but I felt relieved he was actually still breathing. 

“Get off him,” I yelled at them, knowing they couldn’t hear me. I pulled at their sleeves trying to pull them away as they swarmed him. I looked around the small, caged playground for something I could use to defend him with, but there wasn’t anything. I couldn't see the damage they were inflicting, they were too big to see over. I could only tell by Campbell’s pained cries and stuttered begging for mercy. I was helpless. I kept screaming and hitting their big arms. I'd never be big enough to fight off someone like that. They kicked him and stamped on him until their steel-capped boots were bloody and his pained groans fell silent. The leader spat on him before they walked away, laughing like little kids.

Campbell looked like a bird smashed on a windshield. He was alive and awake, just about. He heaved himself onto all fours, coughing up a thick glob of blood. His face was all cut up and his arms were gripping his gut as if his organs were about to fall right out of him.

“Campbell!” I dropped down next to him. “Are you OK?”

He opened his mouth but no words came out.

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

He shook his head, trying to stand. “I need to talk to him.” He dragged himself to his feet, stumbling. “I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“Jesus, Campbell, sit down for a minute. You’re bleeding. Your head…”

“I’m fine, I-I-I-I-” He tried to walk but tripped over himself.

“You’re really hurt.”

“I have to talk to him.”

“How far away do you live?”

He pointed across to the trailers all lined up in the distance. We’d clear it in a few minutes. He could last. I wish I could have supported him but my hands fell right through.

“I can’t hold you, you’ve got to walk it.”

He grunted taking his first few steps. “I can’t do this.”

“I don’t think we really have a choice, Campbell.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath in. He hobbled and groaned with teary eyes all the way to the small trailer. He was slow and hurting. His Dad had beaten us there, you could tell from how it was shaking and the loud moaning coming from inside. We peeked through the window and saw him all sweaty and gross. Luckily I was too short to see all the way into his excursion but Campbell wasn’t. He sank down on the damp, muddy ground outside their door and rested his hands over his ears, heaving a sigh of relief to finally take the weight off his trembling legs.

“How long will this go on for?”

“Until it stops.”

“What does your Mum think of him doing this?”

“I don’t know, I never really met her.”

“Did she die?”

“She left. And I got stuck with h-h-im.”

“My parents kind of ignored me. I was never exactly good enough for them and they tried to hide it but… it feels stupid to complain about it now.”

“It’s never stupid. Parents, they’re stupid.” He started to pick at the grass at his feet.

“One time I heard them fighting in their room talking about getting me a private tutor to help my maths grade even though we couldn’t really afford it. I remember my mum saying ‘she won’t improve, she never does’.”

“What did your dad say?”

“He said, ‘maybe she’ll be different this time’.”

“Ouch.” He strained to tilt his head to look at me. “I know this probably isn’t any consolation but I noticed you.”

“What?”

“At school. I-I never talked to you but I always thought you were cool. And you don’t have to-have to lie and say you thought the same about me, I know I never even crossed your radar. But you were never mean t-to me, so thank you for that.”

If I weren’t dead, I think I would’ve felt warm. Or maybe I would’ve felt horrible for never bothering to know him at all. “You don’t have to thank me for being a decent human being.”

“I want to.”

“What are you going to say to your Dad?”

“That I won’t do it. He won’t hur-hur-hurt me.”

“Are you sure? He sounded pretty serious in the toilets.”

“He won’t kill me. I’m the only kid he sees.”

His phrasing struck me as odd. “He has others?”

“All over. It’s why mum…it’s why she went away.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been hard.”

“It was f-fine. My Nanna was great. She took care of me when dad was no-not himself.”

“What was she like?”

The shakes in his hands stopped almost instantly as he spoke about her. “She was the best.”

Suddenly, the window at the front of the trailer was thrown open and the sounds of heavy, strained breathing drifted out into the warm night.

“Who the fuck are you talking to, lad?”

“No one, sir.” He tried to stand, gripping his side.

“Christ alive, what happened to you?”

“Some of the guys from the club jumped me.”

Wilf rolled his eyes, swearing under his breath. “You didn’t fight back?”

“There were six of them, I couldn’t do anything.”

“See, lad, this is why they say you don’t belong.”

“Can we talk?”

“I’m a little preoccupied here lad,” his hand dipped below the level of the window with the slapping sound of skin on skin.

“Dad, please.”

Wilf sighed angrily. “You fucking pansy. Get up sweetheart, party’s over.” He dismounted, slamming the window shut.

Not a minute later a young woman in a skin tight orange dress, holding her high heels in her hand came shyly scurrying out. She smiled awkwardly before running away. His Dad was in nothing but his underwear as he beckoned Campbell in.

“Sit down, I’ll patch you up. Stop crying like a little girl.”

“I’m not crying.”

Campbell squeezed on a small wooden kitchen chair, wiping blood from his nose with his sleeve. His Dad had a small first aid kit in hand as he joined him. He harshly grabbed his face, turning his head from side to side.

“Just a couple scratches, you’ll live. Take your shirt off.”

He winced and whined as he lifted the blood stained white fabric overhead. His ribs were deeply bruised, his stomach too.

“Think you got a couple fractures,” Wilf said as he mercilessly poked and prodded his son’s tender skin, ignoring his grimaces. “After your initiation, we’ll get you up to the quacks.”

“I don’t think I can hang on that long.”

“Lad, it’s three hours.”

“I know but I want to be at my best fo-fo-for it.”

“Lad, it has to be today, it’s all arranged.”

“A-a-a-and what happens if I-I-I-I can’t…”

“There is no can’t, it’s not an option. I made a vow, lad. You muck up, you’re done. I’ll put you in the fucking ground.”

Campbell scrunched his eyes up tight, balling his clammy hands. “Dad-”

Wilf smacked his hand down on the table loud enough to make both of us jump. “Don’t call me that.”

“P-p-please Dad, I don’t want to do it. I-I-I-I can’t kill someone.”

“You have to. They take cowardice very very seriously and so do I. If I had raised you, you would be excited for it.”

He hushed his voice. “W-w-what if I just don’t go? If-if-if-if I just disappeared. No one would have to know.”

“Are you planning on running?”

“...I can’t do this, Dad. I can’t.” He sniffled back tears.

I know he couldn’t feel me but I rested my hand on his shoulder.

“I’d find you and I’d drag you back here to take your punishment like a fucking man.” He slammed shut the first aid kit and turned away, rummaging through the cupboards in the little kitchen space he had.

“Y-y-y-y-you can’t keep me here.”

“Can’t I? You’re my fucking son, aren’t you?”

“Nanna raised me, not you. You were never here.”

When Wilf turned back around, there was a small gun in his hand. It was sleek and black and raised at Campbell. I moved next to him, positioning myself between the two of them as if a bullet wouldn’t glide right through me.

“Daddy….no…” Campbell’s voice shook as he inched from the chair. 

“You and I are going to sit here for the next two hours and twenty six minutes before I take you back to The White King and you complete your initiation.”

“Dad, I can’t–”

“Stop saying that. Do you really want to die for this?”

“I don’t want to die for anything. I want to live.”

“Once you’re a part of the family, you can. No one tells you what to do. You’ll have brothers for life. You’ll be a part of something, don’t you want that?”

“I’m not going to hurt people. Especially people who haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve seen you at your riots.”

“Marches.”

“A march has to mean something. Your riots don’t. None of you stand for anything, you just think you do.” Campbell was losing his cool if he ever had one to begin with. His face was turning blotchy red and he was starting to shout.

“That boy you’re gonna stab up in a few hours, accused you of being a little necro perv. The way you’re talking right now, I find myself believing him.”

“When we were thirteen, Dad. He doesn’t deserve to die for that. Kids say dumb shit all the time.”

Wilf groaned loudly, raising the gun in line with Campbell’s head. “You’re very talkative all of a sudden.”

“You’re holding a gun to my head.”

“Campbell, I’m scared,” I whispered as if Wilf could hear me. 

“You are going to kill that boy, Campbell.”

“Like Hell I am.” He gritted his teeth. He acted brave but I could see his eyes welling up and hear his lungs wheezing. If I were alive, I would’ve held his shaking hand. I was scared for him, this kid I didn’t even know. It was strange, I hadn’t felt fear in years. I really wished I could puke.

“You want me to put you down like a dog with the whole gang watching? You want my reputation to be tarnished because you can’t follow orders?”

“God, you people are just always following fucking orders, aren’t you?”

The shot rang out so loud even my ears buzzed and I threw my hands up to cover them. Campbell fell floppy on the table, blood pooling from his open forehead. I think I saw his brains leaking out of the hole in the back of his skull. He was dead. My unfinished business was de-

***

Everything hurts like I’ve been hit by a car. My eyes are hazy as I lift my weighty head from the table. I can’t see anything, it’s all out of focus. I think I’m in Dad’s trailer from the smell.

“Dad?” I look over to him. He’s got his head in his hands and his gun is resting on the sofa next to him. His breathing is heavy with a growl trapped in his throat.

“Stupid boy, stupid fucking boy.” He smacks himself in the face.

“Dad? Dad, look at me. Dad!” I shout. It’s like he can’t hear me. “Dad?” I push myself up from the chair, casting my eyes down. My head is spinning, it feels heavy and hollow.

I am still in the chair, slumped against the table top. But how can I be? I am standing right here…

“Beck, what is this?” I look around the trailer. She’s gone. “Beck, this isn’t funny. What the fuck is this? Why am I down there? Why is there blood? Why…” 

No. No. No. 

I run to my Dad’s side, dropping to my knees and reaching for his hands. I am like air slipping through his fingers. I can’t feel his warmth, his skin, the cracks in his knuckles. It’s so cold. “Dad!”

He stands up, cursing under his breath.

“Dad? Daddy? Sir? Beck? Beck, what the fuck is this? Where did you go?”

That’s when my Dad sits me up in the chair and I see the small globs of my brain dripping from the back of my hair. He shot me. My Dad.

I think I’m going to throw up but my body won’t let me. I keep screaming for my Dad to notice me but he doesn’t. Not that that is new for him. He steps outside, clutching his mobile. 

Holy fuck.

I’m dead. 

I am dead. 

I’ve felt dead for years, even when I was alive I felt dead. I’m dead, for real, but I’m still here. And Beck’s gone but I’m still here. I’m still here. 

Why am I still here?