The human mind is a strange contraption, and not one we are fully in control of.
Our thoughts can be happily skipping along a path we're sure we know, subconsciously, where it might lead. Suddenly, those thoughts are tripped up by a mischievous notion, wishing to drag them onto a totally different, and much more tortuous, route. The end of that route is completely unseen. They might also be random, with no discernible course. Popping like corn in a microwave.
Cassidy had been pleased that Amy was being more open. He could get answers. He could, potentially, even help free her from the mirror so she could... do whatever spirits needed to do. Heaven or Hell or McDonald's.
There was a Maccies everywhere. Three existed in his town, with another two in its neighbour. Who was to say you weren't able to grab a Big Tasty with bacon, medium fries, and a vanilla milkshake once you'd departed this mortal realm? Perhaps a Fillet-O-Flesh or Chicken Leg-end?
Do you see?
Rid of her? Where did that come from? At first, perhaps, but now he was intrigued. Now, he had a personal connection to Amy through Jazz. She had taken his convictions about life and death, and shoved them on a high spin cycle. The resulting amalgamation was a brand new viewpoint. One he needed to explore. Ghosts didn't exist, so what was the difference between that and a spirit? Or ghoul? Shade? Which name applied to her? Did any?
Curiosity had killed the cat, but what had killed Amy? Or, more accurately, who? She was murdered, and her killer had never been found.
Could he solve the mystery?
Cass was a fan of crime stories. Or certain ones. Serial killers. Sherlock Holmes. He'd taken part in murder mystery nights on two occasions. The first was entirely amateur, but all the more fun for it. The second was much more professional. The cast, and some patrons, were dressed in the 1920s outfits and played their parts to perfection. They mingled with the guests in a restaurant, never breaking character, and the crime happened during the meal.
He had failed miserably at figuring out the identity of the perpetrator. The clues were there, yet he pieced them together as if his puzzle was a bowl of Cornflakes, none fitting together, and the only solution was to pour milk on them and consume them.
What made him think he could be successful this time? And why should he? Didn't he have a 'get out of jail free' card in his tenancy agreement? He could change his mind within the first fourteen days, right?
Don't be stupid, man. It wasn't a new pair of jeans. It wasn't a toaster. He'd agreed to six months on the lease, so he was going nowhere. He assumed Amy was in the same situation, although she probably didn't sign anything to take up residency in the mirror.
OK. He'd don his imaginary deerstalker and see what game was afoot, Watson.
She'd asked how he relaxed. That was easy.
"I listen to music," he said. "Watch movies, play video games, do a little writing."
What do you write?
He hadn't expected to add that little snippet. His writing was something he'd learned to mostly keep to himself. Too many people had made fun of his hobby. It didn't stop him writing his introspective poems, but it did stop him talking about it. Who would Amy tell, though? The mirror wasn't like the paintings at Hogwarts. She couldn't move between them for a few drinks and a natter with her friends.
"A bit of poetry, that's all. Nothing much."
Maybe you'll read some to me one day.
"It's not very good," he admitted.
It wasn't entirely true, at least not to him. He didn't think his musings were that bad. On the rare occasion someone had read a few, he'd been complimented. Cass wasn't confident, however. His poems were not written for others to read. They were a way for him to reach inside and delve about to see what made him who he was.
Still, I'd like to hear them.
"OK," he said. "I'll think about it. Maybe one day."
Thank you.
"What about you?" he asked.
It was a leading question and, thankfully, one that automatically followed hers. He wanted to know what she did when she wasn't speaking to him. Did she drift aimlessly, waiting for someone to come visit? Did she simply cease to exist, with the presence of another bringing her to (after) life?
If the latter was the case, did that mean she was draining his life force in order to be?
And if she didn't want to answer, he could pretend he meant while she was living, unless that would cause her distress. Would he want to talk about playing video games when he was unable to pick up a controller or turn the television on? Probably not.
Me?
"What do you enjoy?"
He paused slightly before saying 'do.' The alternative was 'did,' and he thought that was callous. It also directed his question to a particular time. A particular plane.
What do I do?
"Yes," he said. "When you're not talking to me, what do you, or what does any ghost, do?"
I'm not a ghost.
"No, sorry. I don't know what to call you. Someone in your situation, then."
Dead.
"Well... yeah. I guess."
Nothing. I don't do anything.
With no substance whatsoever, it was the obvious response. He hadn't thought this through.
"Sorry. I don't suppose you can."
In my situation.
"Yes... in your situation. I didn't mean to offend you."
You didn't.
I get that it's difficult.
It is for me too.
Cassidy nodded. He was trying to push her for information she might not have, or want to share. It could be too painful.
There's nothing to do here.
When you're not here, I just
Float?
No. Not that.
I just am.
"Are you confined to the mirror? Or is it, I dunno, bigger?"
Like a Tardis?
The Tardis was drawn, rather than written. The window was larger than it was in the television show, but it needed to be to contain what Amy had depicted peering out. A typical, white sheeted ghost. Cassidy laughed, and the Tardis became a smiley face.
"Just like that, Doctor!"
It's hard to explain.
Describe.
There's no space, but
It's endless.
Suffocating and expansive
Same time.
"Oh," he said.
It was all he had. Ah... Was that how she died? Suffocation? Don't ask!
Yes.
Oh.
"OK, what did you used to do?"
Dance.
I liked to dance.
And sing.
"Were you any good?"
As good as you are at poetry!
Ah! Amazing, then!
"Is that why someone killed you?" he snickered.
Shit! No! He did not just say that! Who the hell says things like that? He could sense the darkness at the back of his mind, the one that loved to slip inappropriate thoughts or comments into random parts of the day, grin. The bastard.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! I really didn't. It just slipped out!"
Amy didn't answer, and Cassidy didn't blame her. He felt he could slap himself and was sure she would have done so too, if she had hands. Such remarks were a part of the dry humour he tried to subdue. Though he couldn't help thinking them, they were almost always kept internalised. He really wasn't an unfeeling arsehole, no matter how his mind sought to portray him.
"Amy?"
"Amy? Come on. I'm sorry. It was a joke, that's all. A stupid joke. I don't know why I said it. It won't happen again."
The mirror was clear apart from the smudge, which had thickened. Darkened, the way her mood surely... was that the origin of the mark? Did it reflect her disposition?
"Amy?"
Cass swore to himself. He wasn't used to chatting with the afterlife. Mistakes were bound to be made. She couldn't hold his idiocy against him, could she? Did he deserve that? Yes, he did.
He couldn't tell himself otherwise. If she was standing before him, and had known him for a while, she'd know it was a joke. She'd probably throw a jibe back at him in the battle of insults he was familiar with from having a brother and sister. He didn't know if she was an only child or not. If Jazz hadn't told him who she was, he'd possibly never have made a connection, as his memory was so vague. Siblings on her side were a possibility, but a lack thereof would leave her unprepared for the usual verbal attacks that came with them.
He was trying to make excuses. Swing the blame over to her for being too sensitive. Sarcasm and insults were a common factor in humour, but seven years dead would have left her sense of it a husk. One that once had life, but would now crumble if held by a heavy hand.
Such as his.
"Amy? Are you still there?"
It seemed she wasn't. He sighed and his shoulders slumped. He was disappointed. Angry at himself. What could he say to change her opinion of him? How could he renew their interaction?
Jazz?
"Do you remember me?"