The house was quiet when I returned home. Dad had left the door open for me so I slipped inside and left my heels on the floor. I was glad he didn't wait up, he deserved his sleep.
I tried to be quiet while moving from the front door and down the corridor, into the kitchen. I flicked the lights on and went straight to the fridge, grabbing the carton of orange juice instantly. I would've made tea if my dad wasn't such a light sleeper, the sound of water boiling inside the old kettle would've echoed throughout our small house.
"The first time I saw you at a party was in year eleven. You walked in with a big group of girls and I recognised them all except for you. Before I even had the chance to go up to you Charlie told me to back off, he was really protective of you," Kingsley laughed. He sat at the kitchen table while I went into the cupboard to retrieve a glass.
"Year eleven was when I started going to all these parties. I had this bitch girlfriend who had just cheated on me so my best friend forced me to go with her to cheer up. I didn't think about it much at the time but I'm really glad I went. It brought me out of my shell a lot and I realised I preferred to mess around with girls and boys far more than I did dating them."
Kingsley scrunched up his nose. "Not the life for me."
I poured the orange juice into a cup and brought it to my lips to take a sip. I raised an eyebrow for him to continue. If he called me a slut, I would have kicked him out. But, he didn't.
"There's nothing wrong with it," he murmured before a smile tugged at his lips. "It's just...well, because my parents had such a kickass love story, I want my own, I suppose."
"Cute," I commented with a smirk and he waved me off.
"Anyway, as I was going to say," he heaved out a sigh playfully. "After Charlie told me to piss off, I instantly remembered that this was not, in fact, the first time I'd met you."
I walked over to the dining table and sat next to him while he carried on with the story.
"I went to Charlie's seventh or eighth birthday party and you were the only girl there. I thought you were his sister at first - Charlie and I weren't exactly friends so I didn't know his family life. I remember you were really quiet and had this weird scowl stuck to your face. Only until we started playing hide and seek did you cheer up. You stuck to Charlie's side the whole way through but you worked well together," Kingsley reminisced.
"I remember that party," I laughed quietly. "I remember you too."
He widened his eyes in amusement.
"I remember thinking who the hell does this kid think he is taking not one, not two but three party bags!"
He snorted out a laugh. "They were for my sisters," he argued.
"Sure they were," I tutted jokingly.
The light tap of rain had begun to pitter against the kitchen window. We fell into a comfortable silence, focusing on the outside and letting our thoughts fade into nothing.
"I should get to bed," I whispered. I returned the glass into the sink and the carton into the fridge as if I hadn't been there.
We made our way upstairs quietly and every step groaned under the pressure of my weight. Kingsley remained fast and light on his feet, almost floating down the corridor and towards my room.
It was a buzzing quiet in the house but for once, I didn't feel so alone within it all.
I stripped off my torn dress and fell into my pyjamas. My skin felt sticky with the grime of the night, from Felix to Uncle Louis to Death. I made sure to roughly wipe it all off of my face, splashing the water and slathering on creams. I knew it wasn't possible to be free of it, that pressure against my chest still burdened me, for one. I didn't think anything would be able to rid me of that feeling, though.
Now I only had twenty-four-hours to figure this all out. I had to get my head straight and sort out all my conflicting emotions. I needed this wish.
Death had suggested that I was on the right track. Did he know who killed Kingsley? Surely not. Otherwise, I wouldn't have to be doing all this for him.
Kingsley was standing opposite the window when I arrived back from the bathroom. His stare was intent on the pictures sitting on my windowsill. I'd say it was the only colour in my room.
While he crouched down to look at them more closely, I grabbed the black pen from my desk and went over the letters on my wrist. Quincy Sinclair. Sometimes I got sick of seeing my name over and over again. I made sure the words hadn't faded and it was easy to see quickly and read with confidence.
"Is this your mum?" He asked.
"Uhh-yeah. Yeah, that's her," I answered and glanced to the photo I knew he was looking at. It was the only photo of her I had left. Dad had taken the others that used to litter our house and hid them somewhere in the attic. We tried to keep them up for a couple of days after her departure but it was just too painful. One day, I came home from school to see they'd all gone.
"You have her nose," he commented.
I smiled, "You think?"
"Yeah, that's it though."
I hummed and he finally turned to see me put the pen back onto my desk. Before I could move, he grabbed my forearm. Instead of surprising me, the cold that ran through his form seemed to fade into a buzz instantly.
"Why do you do this all the time?" He asked, running a finger over the ink.
With my free hand, I tucked a piece of hair out of my face and behind my ear. "It's actually not that big of a deal. I get these horrible nightmares that look incredibly real. It scares me shitless and properly screwed me up when I was little. So, my mum started writing my name on my forearm and she said whenever I'm scared of something, I should look at my wrist and see if the words are there. If they aren't then I know that I have to wake myself up and stay calm because it's only a dream."
My head throbbed and I wasn't sure if it was from the intense gaze Kingsley had set on me or the half bottle of champagne I necked earlier.
"Anyway, it just became a habit. I still get those dreams but don't sleep nearly as much as I should for them to scare me."
"Do you take anything for it?" He asked, his eyes soft.
"Nah," I brush him off. "I don't need anything, I'll be fine."
I knew he didn't believe me though and his gaze dropped to the purple bags under my hazel eyes, as if noticing them for the first time. I ignored him and instead climbed into my bed, clicking off my lamp. I rested on my back, eyes to the ceiling as I studied the patterns.
"I love your house," Kingsley whispered and I felt as the bed dipped beside me.
"Don't lie," I chided.
"I'm not lying," he laughed.
I curled onto my side and watched Kingsley instead. He lay on top of the sheets and with his hands behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling as I had. "It's cosy."
"It's a council house," I deadpanned. It wasn't that I was embarrassed or insecure by the place we lived. It was a nice house, we'd made it nice. I did, however, feel a little insulted by his comment. This boy who had it all probably looked at my home like it was a dollhouse as he admired the working class like an aesthetic through a snow globe.
My fingers fumbled with the end of my quilt and I watched as Kingsley's eyebrows furrowed. He clicked his fingers into place, one by one, before resting them on his chest that rose and fell with breath. He looked completely real at that moment. There was no ghostly effect around him or aura that suggested paranormal. He was just an average teenage boy. And for a moment, I tricked my mind into thinking that he was or could be.
"You know when you wish me back," he began.
I hummed to show I was listening but my heart began to race. I was afraid about the wish, what if it didn't work properly? What if Death really had tricked me?
"Do you think we'll remember each other? Remember all of this? And how will it work? Will I wake up right before they bury me? Or maybe we'll go back to New Year's Eve and the killer will have a change of heart? In that case, we might not remember each other. I hope that's not true. I'd like to be your friend while I'm- you know...alive."
"If we do remember each other then you can buy me a Tesco meal deal. After dealing with your ghost bullshit and arsehole friends, I think I deserve it," I joked.
"Of course," he laughed quietly. "I might take you to Mcdonalds too if I'm feeling especially nice."
"Oh, wow. Don't get too crazy."
We laughed quietly like two children at a sleepover, sharing secrets and tip-toeing around reality. It felt nice, too. To not have to worry about much. To enjoy the company.
After my anxieties dampened into a dull background ringing, I gently fell into my first good sleep in a while. It only felt like seconds later but a tapping noise was what woke me up. Much like Dad, I was a sensitive sleeper, so it didn't take much for me to stir awake.
The morning sunlight poured into my room and I cursed myself for not closing the curtains earlier. It burned my eyes but the thought in the back of my head that screamed in succession after my dreamless night distracted the negativity for once.
It was a slow tap first, so light that it could have been the drizzle of raindrops. Then, as time moved forward, the taps grew more and more confident, leaving no silence between each one.
I groaned and pulled myself into a sitting position. While running a hand through my messy hair, I assessed the room and checked for where the noise could've been coming from. That was when a single knock pointed me in the right direction. Against my window, I watched as a tanned knuckle pounded against the glass.
With cautious steps, I approached the window and looked down to see Charlie Hawthorne. With his body dangling, he held onto my windowsill. His cheeks were crimson and sweat had begun to build on his forehead.
Resisting the urge to laugh, I yanked the window open quickly and reached down to take his arm.
"Morning, Bambi," he wheezed.
Charlie pulled himself up too and tumbled inside my room with a thud.
Mildly annoyed and half-amused, I watched him with hands on my hips as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"What the hell, Charlie?" I scowled.
He fizzled into laughter on the floor, clutching his stomach. "That used to be easier."
"Because when we did it before, I knew you were coming and left the bloody window open. What is wrong with you?"
Charlie sat up against the chest of drawers. His dark brown hair stuck up in all sorts of directions and his eyes glowed bloodshot.
"I have news," he breathed heavily as he attempted to recover from climbing up to my window. "It's something you're gonna want to know."
I fell into place on my desk chair, looking down at him expectedly to continue.
"Okay. first of all," he began. "Kingsley's funeral is today. I thought you might want to go. It'll be held at four o clock in the Lake Valley church because Kingsley's mum used to live over here or something."
At that, my eyes scanned the bedroom for any trace of Kingsley. From my bed to the doorway and the dark corners but he wasn't anywhere to be seen.
"Second thing, it's about Felix Montgomery" Charlie continued but his voice had dropped an octave, eyes hardening.
"He's dead." My heart stopped. Dead?
"And he wrote you into his suicide note."