Golden
I thought we were golden.
After we moved out of Texas, I figured we'd be safe from the hate. Safe from the prejudice.
But it seems like the redneck cruelty I hated in my small Texas town followed me here.
And now I'm staring at the barrel of a gun, praying that whoever this woman is leaves my husband alone.
I can't see her face. Blonde curls and blue eyes peek out of her ski mask, and her body is the perfect hourglass shape.
If I was straight, she'd be hot.
But I'm not, and she's pointing a gun at my face, and so the only thing I can feel is terror.
"Get outta here, you goddamn queer," she says. "See you in hell."
And I swear, I can see my brains on the street before everything goes black.
When I come to, I'm back home.
That can't be right. I saw my brains. I can't be alive.
But here I am. In bed. I stand up. I've got a pounding headache. Just a headache? I got the shit shot outta me by a homophobic hottie and all I have to show for it is a headache that could be fixed by a few Advil?
Something is very wrong here.
Well, first, I'll grab some Advil. We can sort out the rest later.
I open the bathroom door, squinting. Whose bright idea was it to put a window in a bathroom? I'm all for natural light, but not when I wake up at six in the morning to take a piss and get a face-full of ultraviolet rays.
I let my fingers run along the drawers, trying to find the doorknob. There. Open it, fumble around... is this the Tylenol, or is it Mark's antidepressants? In this damn light, I can't tell, so I blink some more and wait for the spots to fade from my vision.
Hang on... I opened the door, didn't I?
I didn't hear anyone close it, but it's definitely shut. Why would Mark shut the door? Wouldn't he want to talk to me? Ask me what happened?
Finally, I can see.
But the cabinets aren't open, either. I swear I opened them. I was feeling around with the pills.
I stare in shock as my hand closes around the doorknob. I can feel it, I can even open it, but the door itself won't budge. It's like there's a dream world on top of the real one. So which one am I in?
Screw the Advil. I already feel like I'm tripping, I don't need any more chemicals in my system. I have to find Mark. He'll be able to tell me what's going on.
Maybe getting shot was a hallucination, a dream, too? Maybe I accidentally got some wacky food poisoning. Maybe I did drugs and I just can't remember. But... Mark would have stopped me, wouldn't he? He would have stopped me from getting high. He knows firsthand the damage drugs can cause.
I just need to find him. Then everything will be okay.
I find the TV on. It's some ad for a nursing home. I sure as hell hope I die before I get old. I don't want to live in some old people home. Let me die in peace.
I follow the trail of bottles with a sense of growing dread. Mark only hits the bottle when things are going really badly. Is it his sister? I know Kathy has been sick lately, but I thought the doctors said it would be fine. Is she dead?
Mark is on the floor in the kitchen, sobbing.
"Fuck, Mark, you okay? Mark?!"
He doesn't seem to hear me. He gets like that sometimes, where he's so wrapped up in his sorrow that he doesn't hear anything else.
"M-Mark? Come on, babe, it's okay, I—"
I stop when I see what he's holding in his hands. A paper. No, two. In one hand is a photograph of us. It's way back, back when we first met. He's grinning into the camera, and I'm staring at him, rolling my eyes with a smile. I remember. He told a joke right as the guy snapped the photo.
I always loved that photo. Why is he holding it now?
And in the other hand....
Oh shit. Is that a funeral brochure? Who... who died? Kathy... she wasn't that sick. And that photo...
Oh Jesus. Oh my God.
Am... am I dead?
I watch in helpless agony as Mark holds up the bottle.
Damn, straight whiskey? I have to do something. I can't let him drink himself to death. I just can't.
Mark stares at the last swirls of liquid death in the bottle and sighs in disgust. With tears still pouring down his face, he screams and throws the bottle at the wall. I watch as it shatters into a million pieces.
"Mark, no!" I step in front of him, but the glass goes right through me. Most pieces miraculously miss, but one evil little shard hits just above his eyebrow, drawing a small bead of blood.
To my shock, Mark starts laughing. He laughs as he pulls the glass out of his eyebrow, he laughs as he picks up the rest of the pieces, he laughs as blood drips down his face, mixing with tears. He laughs as he walks around, picking up glass and empty bottles, and he laughs as he dumps it all in the recycling.
"I'm sorry, John," he says, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I'm sorry for everything. I know you don't want this for me. I just... I don't know how to live without you." He stares with empty eyes at the smear of blood on his white sweatshirt.
I always told him that white was going to stain, I think, tears spiking in my eyes. I think about the ad, the one for the nursing home.
I take it back. I want to grow old. I want to be with Mark. I want to fight about what TV program to watch, and make fun of the straight celebrities, or eat Mark's famous pork ribs, or bicker over whose turn it is to wash the dishes like we're little kids. I want to live.
I want to give Mark a sign. To let him know that I'm here. But I can't touch anything. He's in the real world, I'm in the afterlife.
I try, though. I try to wrap my arms around his waist. I hold onto him as he shuffles around the kitchen.
He doesn't notice, and finally, I let go. I let go and I sob. Why am I a ghost? Why can't I just leave? I don't want to watch Mark tear himself apart.
I'll go somewhere else. Wander a less depressing house. Find some happy family in the suburbs, maybe. Someplace where I don't know anyone.
But when I get to the door, it's locked. And I mean really locked. Anywhere else in the house, I can walk through walls. But the doorways out are blocked.
Something is keeping me here. Something won't let me leave. If I figure out what that is, maybe I'll be free. Maybe I'll be free.
****
It's no use. I'll be stuck here forever. I've searched and searched all over the house. Even if there is something here holding me to this world, I can't touch it. I've tried everything, but no luck. I'm useless.
And all I can do is watch.
It's been three months. Long enough that Mark has stopped drinking himself into a daze.
Long... long enough... long enough for him to have moved on.
He's met a girl.
Her name is Sophie. She's pretty, you know. She's a girl, and I'm definitely gay, but Mark has always been pansexual. But it still hurts, you know? I want him to move on. I want him to be happy. But I don't want to watch him be with someone else. It hurts too much. Too goddamn much.
I just don't know why I'm here. What's the damn use? I can't do anything, say anything. I might as well be gone. Maybe this is my Hell. Watching Mark move on without me. Watching Sophie come in and take him away from me.
Something about her looks familiar. I can't remember exactly when she showed up. Maybe she's one of Mark's friends. Maybe they were seeing each other while we were together. Maybe he never loved me.
I guess that's a stupid thought, just little jealous me getting all irrational, but...
But maybe it's true.
Ghosts can't sleep. I'm up all the time. I usually stick to the kitchen.
Of course, when they start rocking the bed upstairs, it doesn't matter where I am. I can always hear them, no matter where I go. Living room, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom.
I can always hear them, but they can't hear me.
Where do I recognize her from?
With nothing else to do, nothing else to think about, that question consumes my days. She's sort of the stereotypical Hollywood model. Hourglass figure, blonde hair, blue eyes: name a famous model, you've got it. Hell, even Scarlett Johansson is blonde now. Maybe she's acted in a movie, or something. If I was alive, I could ask her, but...
But I can't do a thing.
All I can do is listen to the thuds and moans.
They'll bring the damn apartment down. This place was bought cheap— well, cheap for New York, anyway— and it's two steps away from falling into a hot place.
I wish I could at least pick up some earbuds. Drown out the noise. My new AirPods are going to waste, now that I'm dead.
I've been doing some digging (and by digging I mean looking at papers) and it seems like my death was ruled a suicide. How? I don't know. Seems like being shot point blank in the head would be obvious, but I guess my face was all blown to shit and they couldn't tell where I was shot. I wonder how they even identified me.
God, if only I could say something. Write a note. I could warn Mark. Warn him about the skinny blonde with the blue eyes.
Oh my God.
Wait.
That's... that's where I've seen her.
Sophie isn't an actress.
She's the woman who murdered me.
Her eyes as cold as the merciless sea. Her hair golden.
And if she killed me... she's going to come after Mark. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but she will.
She wants to "clean up the damn queers," right?
Well this damn queer is about to turn her golden ass hair into a damn mop if she lays one finger on my husba—
Another loud thump jolts me back to reality. She could do it right now. She could fucking kill him. No witnesses.
No one except me.
I have to do something.
But I can't do anything. I'm a ghost.
Too bad being a ghost isn't like in the movies. I can't rattle my chains, or write a note, or kill someone.
Would I even kill her?
The obvious answer is yes. She killed me. She's going to kill my husband. But...
Nevermind. I won't kill her. All I have to do is warn my husband.
But how, goddamnit, how?
I slam my fist into the wall. Nothing. But I swear, I can hear my heart pounding, my blood rushing, almost as if I'm alive.
If she hurts him—
Behind me, something smashes.
I spin.
A burglar, on top of everything else?
But there's no one there.
I stare at the smashed pieces, and then at my hands.
Could... could I have done that? After all this time, can I finally do something?
I grab the faucet of the sink, and I watch the water turn on.
I can. I can do this.
I can save Mark.
I love the feeling of my feet thudding on the floor. I feel real.
Until I walk past the mirror in my hallway and see blankness staring back at me.
Whatever. Not the point. I need to get to Mark.
Above me, something breaks.
It doesn't sound like they're having fun anymore.
Which is good, because even if they can't see me, I don't want to walk in on that.
Thud.
Fuck, fuck, I have to hurry. Shitshitshit, I finally can do something and I'm going to be too late—
Slam. The door all but breaks open.
"What the fuck?" Goldilocks spins around, gun in hand, and puts two bullets in the door. "N- no one there."
But Mark... there's raw fear in his eyes. Angry fear.
"You did it, didn't you? I knew he wouldn't.... I knew it wasn't a suicide. It was you. All along."
"Give the queer a cookie," Sophie snarls. "Yes, I killed him. And I'm killing you. You're both abomi—"
I slam her into the wall.
Now both Mark and Sophie are screaming.
"Bitch," I snarl. "If you fucking touch him, I'll whip your damn ass."
Of course, she can't hear me. She screams and struggles against the wall. I pluck the gun from her hands like a feather from a chicken and push it across the floor.
With one hand on her hair, I march her to the door.
"And don't come back, you fucking nutcase!" I scream. I know she can't hear me, but it still feels good.
I get the feeling that she won't be coming back.
But right now, I don't care. Right now, I need to get to Mark.
I almost trip over the stairs. My body is becoming more real by the second, solidified by my rage.
No, I think. Not my rage.
My love.
Because this hateful bitch tried to steal my love away from me. She stole my life, but she couldn't steal him. She will never steal him.
"Mark?" I ask, praying he'll hear me. "Mark?"
Nothing. He can't hear me.
I push the door open, and Mark scrambles away from the door.
"Please, whatever you are, don't hurt me."
I stare at him, the skin around his eyes stained red with tears, and my heart breaks all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Mark."
"Holy shit," Mark whispers. "You... you won't hurt me. You... you saved me. From... from Sophie. You're— you're not evil. You're John. You're my John."
I'm a ghost. I can't speak. I can't sleep. I can't eat.
But I can cry, and I do so now.
He's safe. My Mark is safe.
"I'm sorry, Mark," I whisper. "I want you to be happy. I don't even know why I'm here. I wish... I wish things worked out. Between you and Olivia. I wish people weren't assholes. I wish... I wish I could say goodbye to you. Properly. But... I think I'm finished here. I think I can leave now. Hail a ghost taxi, or whatever. I just... I wish you could see me. One last time. Some... some closure, you know? I wish... I wish I could just say one last thing to you."
"John, can you come here for a second?"
I kneel down towards Mark, closing his hand in mine, and from the smile on his face I know he can feel it.
"Where's your face, John?"
I laugh.
"Smooth, Mark. Real smooth."
But I guide his hand towards my face anyway.
And we kiss. A kiss that transcends the boundaries between life and death.
A kiss that's everything I could have ever wanted. He tastes like closure. Like hope.
He'll be safe. I can go now.
"I love you," I whisper. His eyes widen.
"I love you too, John. And.. I... I heard you. One last time, I heard you. I... I don't know how I'm going to go on. I don't know if I'll ever love again. But... but I'll try. For you. And you'd better move on. Go to whatever afterlife awaits. Because whatever it is, I'll see you there. When it's my time."
I squeeze his hand, but this time, my fingers go right through. I'm fading.
But it's okay.
I said the only three words that matter. The only three words that mean anything.
I love you.
And as long as I got to say that, I'm golden.
Goodbye, Mark. I hope it's a long time before we see each other again.
I'll miss you. And I know... I know you'll miss me.
That's why, before I go, I'm typing this up. So that you can read it later, when you find it, and you'll know that no matter where you go after you die, I'll always be with you.
Love,
John.