Pallid

I'm not a hero.

I swear I've tried being one but it didn't turn out great. Death is a ruthless player. You don't want to cheat him.

Thud. Thud.

But I feel bad too. That I don't do anything. That even though I know a bit of the future, I can do nothing but watch. How do you get used to people you've known all your life suddenly growing death marks as time flies?

Thud. Thud.

I was younger than two when Dad grew them. As far as I could remember he had always had them. Naive as I was, I thought it was kind of cool. Blood splotched through every shirt he wore. But every time I asked him about it, he simply smirked and matted my hair, "Jude, there's no blood on my shirt."

"He's been watching a lot of gore films, I think," Mom would add.

I thought it was normal. I thought every person see the way I see. I was fooled into thinking those corpse-looking people were exactly the way they look to me.

Thud. Thud.

I didn't believe my parents then. Dad had always three splotches of red on his shirt, so what? They weren't even painful. They were just there, drenching his clothes red everyday. And the red kept getting redder. And the splotches kept getting larger. And I found it amusing to watch as it spread and tainted his whole coat. It was a trick only he could pull and he simply didn't want to tell me his secret.

One day, he did not come home for dinner. Mom got a call and whoever it was, he made her cry like I'd never heard her cry before. It was a wail that hurt my ears and made my heart thump so hard I started to weep too.

Thud. Thud.

Mom would not allow me but I managed to take a peek on all the pictures. It was a stabbing by a random robber. Three wounds right where the splotches would begin to spread every time Dad's magic trick unfolded.

I knew then the pain of having done nothing but watch. That's exactly the reason why I tried, once.

Then I won and lost at the same time.

Thud.

Now I'm going to watch again. I'll watch Kristy as her illness consumes her. I'll watch as that ghost disappears from school.

Thud.

It is finally starting to hurt. The cold hard feel of the tile against my forehead as I hit my head over and over on it is somewhat pacifying. There's so much helplessness and guilt and pity and doubt mixing up inside me but the pain and the coldness washes them all away. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Maybe I am not coming at it hard enough.

Thud! THUD!

"Aww!" I feel like something cracked. I touch the spot that sears and my hand comes away with a little blood.

I turn up the shower to max and a hot torrent pelts down on my face. Now, my head is clear.

Mom is still cooking breakfast when I come down to the kitchen.

"There's my early bird!" She greets. But when her gaze finds the band-aid on my forehead, her docile expression twists grimly. Her tremolous fingers drop the spatula and with fierce strides she cuts through the mere yards between us and lands a solid smack on my arm.

"AWW! What the-"

"You dare!" She's like a monster when she's angry. "How many times? How many times have I told you to stop doing that to yourself?"

"I just... fell and hit my head."

"This is the last time. The last time." She points a finger at me.

"Don't worry it's just a small cut." It doesn't even compare, Mom. It doesn't even compare.

She squeezes hard on my hand, flashing me a reassuring smile before coming back to her cooking. "Oh my God! Look what you've done!"

The fish fillets look burned to me.

Both my younger brother and older sister know the meaning of the wound on my forehead.

"Oh, I'm so sick of this." - My sister's harsh comment over the breakfast table. "You just want attention, right? What's the deal? You keep making Mom worry!"

Well, I'm so sick of it too!

"Paula, stop that!" Mom chides her.

"Well, he's been like this since... I don't know, since Dad died."

"Paula!"

"Don't think you're the only one affected." She stays silent after that.

No. Of course I don't think that I'm the only one grieving here. But I feel like I'm the one who killed Dad. I don't even deserve to share this meal.

"Mom, you should bring him to Mr. Gonzales again," the brother suggests.

"Jude and I already talked, if he'll attempt it again, we'll drag him there." She ends with a wide menacing smile.

It's not like I was trying to kill myself.

I meet with Kristy after second period.

"What happened?" She stares wide-eyed at the band-aid. She caressses it tenderly with the tip of her finger. I turn my gaze away from her wraithlike face. "Did you get in trouble?"

"I just tripped."

"Are you sure, Jude?" Tim asks with that knowing look to his eyes.

"Yeah."

"If you say so," he replies.

Derrick cuts in, "You're all coming tonight, right?"

"Of course," Kristy answers instantly. She is not one to miss parties.

"Well, don't overdress. It's just a simple dinner."

"Since when did I overdress?"

"Like everyday," John sighs.

She's got a green sweater today even though the wind is blowing tepid and the days are still longer.

She turns to me for back up. "Jude?"

I give her a shrug. She does overdress everyday. But might be she's actually feeling cold.

"I pass," Tim suddenly announces.

"What? Why dude?"

"There's this program tomorrow, remember? We're rushing to put everything together. Just greet Sophia a Happy Birthday for me."

Derrick raises his swollen arm and flashes a middle finger, "Fuck you, Tim."

"It's a Teacher's Week program. What can I do?"

Tim is the class president. At times like this, he's a busy bee. He has always been the best person in this gang of four. I think he's the only good person among us. He's the one keeping us from being delinquints. He studies and reaps good grades. As for me, I took the plummet long ago. Since elementary, my performance hadn't seen better days.

I am back at the haunted room by lunchtime. The dust was thick and pungent but I could sniff that lingering hint of lemons and flowers. Yet she is nowhere to be seen, as I've expected.

At least I can eat today without nearly throwing up.

She could be dead.

Mom had packed the burned fish fillets for me. "It's your punishment," she said. If only she knew that I deserve worse than burned meat.

You might wonder how I could narrow it down to a matter of days.

To put it simply, Death is not a strike of lightning. Rather, it's a looming storm. It begins as vague discolorations on the skin that worsens over time until everybody else can see them too.

The ghost from yesterday had blood trickling down the left side of her face, gushing out from a crack in her skull. An injury like that was enough to kill her. That's how I knew. It was enough to kill anybody.

I wonder what her tears were for. Was she able to confront the cause of her agony? Did she die regretful?

She had cigarette burns. So many of them. Her father's maltreated her? Or did her boyfriend? Did she even have one?

The face that looked up when I took her picture was so covered in pain yet somehow it was not the type to yield so easily. She was strong, I guess. But does strength really matter in the face of Death?

Maybe it does count. Maybe it does.

Derrick lied. His sister's debut was no simple celebration. Or perhaps it is what they call simple. Yup, it was a house party but the venue doesn't look like a house anymore.

They've put up tents and party lights in the yard and adorned the balustrades with red ersatz roses. With all the twinkling and thumping of music and light and feet, it has become a completely different place. They've set up a stage too where Sophia is sat on a white cushioned chair.

Derrick's sister is prettier than he is handsome. I bet she's smarter too. Derrick's an ape. The one that could only think about girls but not having the courage to speak up to them. He's a total braggart about the girls he knows even though he never got close to asking even one of them to a date. His money's aplenty, however, so that makes me wonder a lot. I could barely afford Kristy's whims when we go out.

There is only a smattering of people when I arrive. A Jesse Jae is playing on two huge speakers on both sides of the stage. I immediately get served with juice and sweet brownies. The air is strangely warm through my clothes.

"Tim's really not coming, huh?" Derrick says over the table. He has begun with a light alcoholic drink that more or less would intoxicate a man with low tolerance such as him even before the program starts.

"Where did you even get that?" John points his lips on the bottle.

"Oh, I just sneaked it out from the case in the kitchen. Don't tell Dad. He's gonna kill me. No one's supposed to get wasted until the afterparty."

I take a sip from the pineapple juice. "What happened to the simple celebration?"

"Well, I had no idea they're gonna be doing this."

John and I had agreed early on to wear coats that would not stand out so I've chosen a white long-sleeved coat from the meager wardrobe that I own.

Kristy, on the other hand, comes in overdressed in a heap of pink so it looks as though she's the debutee. And she has this white scarf wrapped around her bare arms and her neck which gets really much the attention of the crowd.

"Are you cold?" I ask as as I help her to a seat.

"No, I'm fine. Just get me an apple juice," she says, brushing her hair.

"They're only having pineapple."

"Then pineapple it is."

I don't know if it's the juice but she throws up an hour later.

One second she was tap-dancing with Derrick's father. Then the next she was doubled-over and calling for me. Luckily, there's a restroom just a few strides away.

Well, she did have a sip of the wine. And the licquor John was swigging. But she could down a glass of gin and not swagger afterward. She's actually more indulgent in alcohol than I am.

I hear the flush of the toilet and the rustle of her dress as she tries to stand up. I rush from my place on the doorway to catch her arms as she sinks back down, knees weak as jelly.

"You didn't have to come if you're not feeling well."

"Idiot, parties are made for me." She brushes a bit of fluid from the side of her lips. Her knees are shaking. From weakness? From fear.

"Then you didn't have to swill that glass just because John dared you to."

She listens to the rock music playing - loud enough to keep the whole neighborhood awake. I hoist her to her feet and let her head rest on my chest.

"Jude, can we stay here for a moment?"

"I should bring you home."

"I really love the smell of your sweat. I want to breathe it in."

"I stink sometimes, you know."

"I hope we can stay like this forever. Just the two of us."

It's a vain hope, Kristy. We both know that. I say, "Sure."

She chuckles, clutching at my coat. The sound seems to vibrate through me. She is indeed a wonderful lover. If only she had more time to find the perfect man who would return all that she is willing to give. Because I am not that man.

"Why are you laughing?" I ask.

The song changes. Yet its rhythm is for dancing all the same. We should be out on the floor, shaking off all the burdens on our shoulders and humiliating ourselves because we're teenagers. We should not be holding each other so close, pretending the clock has stopped ticking.

She looks up at me. "I've been blabbing out some weird things, haven't I?"

"Yup, the bitch I know would snoot at every word you just said."

She playfully jabs my chest. "You!"

On my bed, way past midnight, I think about the silence I had shared with that ghost and the hopes Kristy held up to me. But no matter what trail of thoughts I follow, it all ends in the same conviction.

I will be watching. It is, after all, everything I can do.