Bleeding Hearts

Invisible Boy

Joaquin
~~

I'm just gonna say it. Being dead sucks. I mean, it sucks if you don't have anyone to talk to, and it sucks that no one alive can like, leave a TV on for you to watch Cartoon Network all day.  Other ghosts kind of are a drag to talk to because in the end no matter how hard you try, the conversation is going to be brought back to how you died, which neither one of you know how. That's the funny thing about being a ghost. You have know idea why you became one.

As a wandering spirit you have these rules instilled in you that you're not really sure where they came from, but you know for a fact are true, at least I knew since I tried it out. One, you can only go to places that you've gone to while alive. This kind of sucked since I didn't exactly travel. I had been a relatively normal kind of person and mostly stuck to my ordinary routine. There had been those few trips in my childhood overseas but I couldn't remember the exact plane path from when I'd been ten.

Two, you can only communicate to other ghosts. All the hullabaloo of Ouija boards and séances are too much work for ghosts to do, mostly powerful wraiths and demons messed with that kind of dealing. So pro tip: don't use Ouija boards because you might be talking to a demon. Three, a ghost will be on earth until they've fulfilled their unfinished business. This kind of seems like the stupid part of the universal rules because as I've said before. You don't remember how you got to where you are currently. So you have no idea what your "unfinished business" is.

I'd made an entertaining existence for myself by trying to make every one of my miserable ghost days a good day. I liked to see the look in dogs and cats faces when they saw me and freaked out. At least they could see me. I spent most of my time wandering the area of where I had last lived, Columbia University. When I focused I could remember the memories of my past, they'd come in clear up until... point of death, but I remembered the other important things. My name was Joaquin. I had been a freshman at Columbia I had had a girlfriend named Camellia and we both met in one of our classes. I had a mom who loved watching telenovelas and a dad who always remembered in a suit. A true businessman. I had sisters and brothers all of whom I got along pretty well with. From what I could recall I had a good life. Why was I still here then? What more was there for me to do? I couldn't exactly get my diploma now being ghostly and all, but I relented to this existence. If you think you question life as a being that's alive. Try doing it as a spirit who has extreme limitations.

Wandering to a taco truck where a group of college guys around my age were mingling I decided to drop in on their conversation and pick up what on what they said.

"Man, I can't believe I bombed that test," grumbled one of them as he looked solemnly at his taco.

"Can you make it up?" His friend queried as he bit into what I had to say looked like a really good looking enchilada. I remembered my mom made pretty good enchiladas for me. This one looked like hers, but I could only assume my mom's were better. The bummed out friend in the baseball cap shrugged

"I dunno, but I mean, I kind of don't want to," he mumbled. I rolled my eyes. Something told me even as a living person I'd been pretty judgmental. Was I here to learn humility? Nah, probably not.

"Is that enchilada any good?" I asked for good measure. I knew they couldn't hear me but I liked pretending that I was part of the conversation. Just a group of Bros out for some food truck, Mexican cuisine in the crisp autumn air. At least I assumed the air was crisp. I couldn't feel it.

"Man, this enchilada is great," the second friend sighed happily. I laughed a little. It felt like he had responded to me.

"Probably should've gotten and horchata with that," I added, "Then that would've really been the perfect lunch."