"Gifted" [Currently Plotting Out]

Gifted || 5

Melanie's last class of the day, History, went by rather slow like the rest. Maybe it was because the teacher, Mr. Gaffhaven, droned on and on about St. Apollo's Academy and blah, blah. It took every ounce of her will to not doze off right there, so she resorted to playing with the pages of her textbook instead.

That's when she felt a cool breeze brush against her from the right, and she instantly turned to look, knowing full well who she was going to see.

The boy was sitting next to her in the empty seat—who definitely hadn't been there a few seconds ago—a ghostly apparition in street clothes. His face was turned slightly in her direction while still facing forwards toward the teacher. His dark-hooded eyes flashed to hers momentarily, but he didn't say a word. He had never said a word since she'd first saw him, and he always looked exactly the same; ratty, worn out clothes that looked singed and blackened as if by flames—what else would leave clothes tattered and black like that? She always had the strange desire to know what happened to him, how he had died. If he would only stay around long enough, that would be one of the many questions she had for him when ever she finally got the chance to.

Melanie stiffened in her seat as she stared at the ghost boy, afraid to turn away for fear he might disappear on her again. He always did that. He would stay, not speaking a word; sometimes just walking with her wherever she went or sitting with her in her classes—until a teacher would call on her—somehow making her look away. Then he'd vanish, not reappearing for days at a time. She'd always tried to ask him questions about who he was, what he wanted. But, unlike the others, he remained silent, with that same tortured expression on his gaunt face. She didn't dare try saying anything now, for fear of being heard, and Mr. Gaffhaven's monotonous voice wasn't loud enough to conceal hers, and the rest of the class was silent around her; she'd easily be overheard.

She'd have to try another time.

So instead, Melanie decided on a friendly smile. Unlike the other ghosts she'd come across, this boy's presence made her feel comfortable and warm—which was strange.

He was her silent companion when the rest of the world remained cold and distant.

The next time he glanced her way, she managed a small, shy wave of hello. And then he did something he had never done before.

The boy spoke.

His usual tortured expression morphed into a friendly one as he smiled over at her; his tight, pale lips tipped upwards and humor laced his voice when he finally opened his mouth to speak. "What an enthusiast this guy is."

Melanie's eyes went wide at the sound of his voice. He spoke—he had actually spoken to her—and she so desperately wished she could talk back.

Witnessing the shock written plainly on her face, the boy's hooded eyes grew soft around the edges—she didn't know what color his eyes were from the shadows that hid them. "Sorry, I'm not used to speaking yet. I haven't for many years that I've almost forgotten how to." He seemed amused by the fact and not at all saddened over his death; instead, his voice was soft and something in that lilting voice of his sounded humorous.