Smoke

Being human

The Tesco Express bag hit against my leg as I rounded the street corner. I couldn't feel it, of course. I couldn't seem to feel anything physical. I couldn't feel the harsh wind that was whipping tendrils of my coarse hair across my face. I was numb all over.

I reached the bridge, laying out the contents of the cheap plastic bag on the uneven paving slabs carefully, gently. A woman passed straight through me, and I felt a flash of warmth and breathed in, a smile playing on my lips. It's the only way to get some sort of feeling within me, and it's wonderful. When I first discovered I could do that, it was early December- Christmas shopping month. So I'd head into the biggest shopping centre and run as fast as I could up and down the escalators, on every floor, arms outstretched, passing through everyone and it sent shots of warmth through my veins. But after a while, I grew tired of seeing all the people enjoying the season with family, friends, company- and I didn't want to be surrounded by people anymore.

A four pack of blueberry muffins, a set of twenty hot pink birthday candles and a box of matches, all laid out in a crocodile line on the pavement. A pity party for one. I could have picked up a pack of those pink balloons but that would have sent me over the edge of insanity I think- as if a ghost birthday party was a particularly sane thing anyway.

When I was younger I had an obsession with balloons- and back then my favourite colour was green, not pink, but they were the only ones left in the Party! section of Tesco. I'd buy them all the time instead of using the pound for something like a cadburys, and my parents thought I was nuts. And I would beg Sam, my older brother to use the helium pump to blow them up. I'd tie string and attach dumb little messages to them and watch them bob over the balcony.

I tore open the packaging like a starving dog, even though I wouldn't have been able to eat anyway- ghosts don't get hungry- but something inside me was excited, maybe it was 9 year old Martha I'm not quite sure. I was excited to pretend I was human, at least until I discarded the bag on the side of the road. The old Martha would be ashamed- she hated wasting food. The old Martha hated ignorance. And selfishness.

But now, I was selfish- my world consisted of me, and only me.

The pavement was mostly empty, except for a Dad, his three kids and a few yards back, a figure with a shaggy black coat.

Lighting fifteen candles out of the twenty, I divided them up between three of the muffins and sat back with a regretful smirk and glassy eyes, then a sound slipped out of my mouth.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Martha, happy birthday to you."

It was croaky and out of tune, a pitiful lament, but it made me feel so alive, and I think that's what made me do what I did next.