Touch-Starved

by Celia Crown

  As I finish putting on my shoes and checking for my keys, my phone lays in my backpack so I don’t have to carry it in my hands. I’m not addicted to that device, but I do like to go on it without feeling excessive.

  I leave out the door without looking at Eli and shut the door; he can phase through any solid material and he can come through the door any time. Eli does come through, but he has this constipated look on his face that doesn’t suit him.

  It does in some ways since he’s got the face of a grouchy handsome man with bitterness in his blood, but it doesn’t suit him either because he has the silent type of anger while emotional constipation means he has feelings.

  He doesn’t care about my feelings.

  “I apologize, not for my beliefs, but for my callousness. I should not have spoken ill of your passion.”

  He might have some emotions.

  “I’m angry that you called my fans uncultured,” I said, the corner of my eyes picks up his massive frame.

  His legs have longer strides than me, but he keeps the pace so his arm is right by mine. It’s nice to have company when Danni is off to do her studies. I get lonely quickly and it’s why I don’t like to stay in the apartment for a long period of time.

  “I said your fans are indolent; they don’t have to fight for the art.”

  “You say it like they have to be in an arena and fight for their lives,” an image of a battlefield comes to mind and it’s a great picture, but then the bloodshed happens and that went a little too dark.

  “Traditional arts are rare and sparse,” he argues, following the path that I walk as we get out of the neighborhood and into a busier street.

  “Don’t be so closed-minded, old man,” I look side to side before crossing the street.

  An aggravated sigh and Eli snaps with a clipped tone, “Just take the fucking apology.”

  I frown up at him, glaring through the angle of sunlight that pierces my eyes. If he had a body, Eli would be useful as a human umbrella for shade, but he’s a pasty ghost with terrible bedside manners.

  “Not when you’re so hostilely pushing it. It’s not genuine; at least give me some flowers.”

  He stares.

  “Okay, fine. Apology accepted, bitter, old man.”

  Chapter Four

  Eli

  It’s childish wonder that sparks in her eyes, a smile wider than her pink cheeks can hold, and a sunshine halo emits such radiance that has people around her captivated.

  Not by the art plastered on the cooperate financing company, they are taken back by the beauty of innocence that outshines everything near her.

  Jackie has a way of captivating attention, and I can’t decide if I like it. She has my attention and it’s a wonder when I had started to watch her, my eyes are drawn to her, following and sweeping for dangers to protect her with what little ability I have.

  A vibration ripples through my chest, and when I go to rub the spot above my heart, my hand slides right through.

  This girl is really something else.

  She doesn’t care for the eyes following her; the only thing she wants to touch is the building warded off by security guards. Jackie stands by the yellow tapes of caution. The amazement in her eyes dims with a small pout on her pink lips as she watches them strip the layer of sealant from the wall.

  Each layer of the magic crumbles the more the paint comes off, messy and irregular when one worker cleans faster than the other. A mindless pattern forms on the building, and it is no longer the message that is meant to be seen. It’s a drip of colors with no significance to the world.

  There are protests outside the perimeter the guards have set. No one steps forward to stop the process while some of the workers on lunch break duck under the tape only to be yelled at by the protesters.

  Jackie stands in the middle of the chaos, neutral and attentive to the ridding of the art that has seized her attention. Committing it to her memory is the goal; those big, brown eyes dart to the newly cleaned walls.

  The stains take time to wash off, but they get it done eventually. There is no disappointment in her face. She has accepted that the art is gone with a smile on her face.

  “I would assume you are troubled over this,” I say.

  Long lashes flutter, fanning up and down teasingly as her smile widens. Her happiness was dimmed for a moment when they began the process of stripping, but then she had turned herself over with such velocity that it reminds me of a child crying before being presented with candy.

  She leaves without saying anything to me, and I think she is still a bit upset that I had spoken rather disrespectfully earlier.

  I shouldn’t have done that, but I didn’t have much control over my mouth since my thoughts and my vocals don’t match up at times. The sharpness of my tongue causes banters between us, and she counters back with her own words to let the playfulness remain a constant wave of friendliness between us.

  “I got to look at a legendary artist’s work up close. I’m happy enough and it’s only a matter of time before they take it down.”

  She lifts the straps of her backpack further into her shoulder as they begin to fall, “Some arts are meant to be fleeing—like fireworks, just a split second of beauty is enough to be memorized.”

  “Yet, many would forget one when they are so many more extravagances after it,” I point out.

  “You see firework as an individual spark, but I see it as a whole; each explosion is a process of a bigger picture.”

  It can be seen that way, but I prefer a more everlasting piece that can be admired all the time. I would want physical beauty in front of me, and I can stand there gazing at a painting for the whole day without knowing my feet are sore.

  Again, this feeling stems from experience during my previous lifetime. It’s slow and temperamental, but senses of déjà vu would hit me at random times of the day to remind me that I am dead and what I am feeling are the remnants of the phantom limbs.

  I wasn’t capable of feeling anything on the first day, but then I felt something distinctive in my chest twice when I’m near Jackie.

  It’s odd, but it could be that I associate feeling anything as a phenomenon of connectivity through the close proximity of us.

  We are never five feet apart.

  “What does a festival sound like?” she asks with a smile as she puts one earphone into her ear.

  “Stupid,” I reply.

  Jackie rolls her eyes, fixing the earbud so people don’t think she’s talking to herself, “You’re boring.”

  “Festivals are for children.”

  “Everyone is a child at heart,” she says, tucking the hair that covers the white earbud.

  “You are a child,” I scan her body. She is too young to be this ballsy to come out here alone with a city filled with criminals.

  Every other pedestrian has committed some kind of crime in their life, and I do not want this girl to put herself in the path of danger by going to a place without a plan. Especially if a place is going to be filled with alcohol and weak security, she can get drugged and overpowered by a stranger with less than innocent intentions.

  “I’m twenty-two.” she pouts, tugging on the strap of her backpack.

  “A child in my eyes,” I explain the best that I can without sounding too complicated, “You are a small girl, any man with decent strength can overpower you and drag you off.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says with a shake of her head, “You’ll be with me.”

  My breath comes out as a shudder. What the hell is this girl doing to me? She can’t say things like that to a man and not get a physical response from me; this is the type of naïve behavior that attracts predators.

  “Stay within the crowd and don’t drink any alcohol and say no to anything strangers give you. Don’t stray to isolated spots no matter how interesting they are and stays within distance of people in case of an emergency.”

  Jackie slows her steps as she gets to a streetlight of a large intersection with
others waiting, “You sound like my dad, it’s so freaky.”

  “I don’t want to be your dad,” I scowl at her disinterest of my concern for her safety, “I want to be—”

  My throat clamps shut, mind churning in perplexity as she turns her head to look at me with curious eyes when I abruptly cut myself off.

  That was close.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I fear to let my mind drift to that forbidden and unchartered territory in my heart. It scares me how much she affects me in my way of thinking and the fracture of my control.

  “You can be my grandpa,” she says as she sways her head back to the front of the street when someone turned because they thought she was talking to them.

  I want to be more than that.

  Fuck.

  I shouldn’t be having these thoughts. I’m a dead man, a ghost still stuck on Earth when I should be going through the gates of heaven or hell.

  Nowhere is still somewhere, but I’m here just lingering like a ghost who just can’t let go or have unfinished business.

  “Eh,” she cocks her head with a wrinkle at the bridge of her nose as she walks with the people. “You’re at the right age to be my uncle.”

  “I’m not your anyone,” I grit out, jaw clenching at this unfamiliar swirl in my stomach.

  “No, you’re my Ghost Boy.” she giggles behind her hand, and my breathing becomes shallow at the melodic chime in her tune.

  I’m messed up in the head.

  I refuse to entertain her further as we walk towards the ferries wheel at a distance in front of her. Festival-goers are dressed in their chic clothing and styles; some have markers on their faces to immerse in the tradition of the music that blares through the air through the sky.

  Jackie’s happy little skip kick starts my speed, but it’s not much of a difference since she’s so short. Her tiny legs can only carry her so far before she gets tired and walk again. It’s comical how she thinks she can save time by walking faster when she needs more breaks in between the burst of distance.

  “Wow, this pair of legs is not meant for long-distance relationships. The ferries wheel will have to wait. I need to get a drink to quench this thirst of the century.”

  “What would you do when you’re in the Sahara Desert?” the pull has me walking behind her to buy a water bottle from a vendor outside of the gated festival arena.

  “First of all, in what life scenario would I find myself in a desert?” her face twists in muddled bewilderment.

  “Hypothetical,” I grunt, spinning my head to look around me.

  My height gives me the advantage to see a wider range of people; everyone looks suspicious and very open at the same time.

  They better keep their distance from Jackie, and I’m going to have to keep an eye out for sleazy bastards if this tiny, little thing is weaving through a crowd of people.

  She drinks half a bottle of ice-cold water and sighs loudly with a chuckle; the refreshed radiance comes off her like waves of energetic currents.

  Then she’s cutting into people and curving through spaces between crowded party goers as the music from the stage plays with a band that runs the show with heavily upbeat music that’s popular with mainstream media and younger audiences.

  I would never be caught in a place like this; disgusting people exchanging saliva, contaminated air pollution, and the rowdy simpletons fueled with alcohol are everything that rubs me in the wrong way.

  I am more than convinced that my past life is a sophisticated setting.

  If the pull isn’t there, I would have lost that little mouse in the crowd of sweaty and drunk people.

  Jackie stops in front of the barrier to the stage; it’s a mystery as to how she manages to finesse her way into the front when there are bodies pushing and shouting at the music.

  Her fingers tighten at the metal in front of her as the glimmer in her eyes brighten. She giggles through the music as the drums blast through the speakers on the stage. It’s a song that slowly climbs the tempo of a big drop when the crowd decreases their volume to compromise with the anticipated moment.

  It comes, and lights flash too quickly in a swift and deliberate manner that synchronizes with the music. Jackie doesn’t scream like those around her, but her expression is wide open for the smile to change into a dynamic grin.

  I’m smiling with her; it’s hard not to when she is contagiously happy.

  That feeling gets destroyed when a nagging throb at my temple forces me to look to the side. I turn my body to the man dancing to the beat behind her and I would have left him alone if he wasn’t emitting off a bad vibe.

  This is a concert and it is expected for people to be close together with other, and it gets worst the closer they are to the stage.

  I look down and anger heats through my phantom body; it’s vehement and instant, and it stays with an unforgiving sneer curling on my lips.

  The man has his dick at the back of Jackie’s spine. He’s pressed to her and he pushes more to cop more than just a feeling. He wants to get his dick off by being a disgusting inbred, intoxicated and belligerent as he tries to pass off his advances as people push behind him.

  Not on my fucking watch.

  My hand reaches over with extreme hastiness to push him away. I need this man away from Jackie. The consuming need to rip the bastard’s hands off her grows stronger as another try to touch him fails. I keep going straight through him and rashness screeches in my ears when he drops his damn hands on her waist.

  I see red—the color of wrath.

  His scream breaks the tempo of the music, loud and pained just as I had intended to make him sound like. My eyes adjust through the haze of blackened rage as everyone begins to take notice of what’s going on. A triumph sense of accomplishment swells in my chest when his wrist had been snapped.

  His hand dangles from the joint of his wrist, dislocated and broken with his scream bringing in the most satisfaction.

  This is the first time I have had any contact with solids, and I don’t regret it. I have more chances to find a way to manifest the strength to touch again.

  Jackie turns around as the man hunches down to cradle his limp hand, “Ah! Fuck! What the fuck!”

  He screams and shouts, but no one helps him because he is drunk with profanity mixing in his breath and a general sense of bystander effect.

  Jackie doesn’t have that, and she tries to help him without the slightest idea of what he was doing to her, but I stop her. I did it for her and she is to not let him touch her any further. I would have put an end to it the moment I saw, but I had my limitations so it took longer than acceptable to me.

  “Jacqueline!” my order hits a chord in her and she freezes, jumping back and cradling her own wrist in her hand as an emphatic witness to the agony shrilling through the air.

  “Don’t fucking touch him!”

  She chokes on her shock, eyes wide as she stares at me. My chest heaves in echoing thumping in my ear, and I’m too worked up to care about what the hell is happening to me.

  “We’re leaving now,” I hiss, anger reeking from my clipped words and she doesn’t question me when she dodges away from the man with the crow fanning out.

  Everyone stays away from him as he holds his limp hand, but I don’t spare him a second glance as I walk behind Jackie. The good girl nature of her makes her look over her shoulder to make sure the man isn’t in too much pain. I keep my presence in her line of vision and scowls at her for slowing down.

  “Keep moving,” I bark out the command and her head whips back to the front.

  Her tiny legs carry her away from the crowd where security guards are trying to figure out what happened. Accidents are a given in a space like this, and they won’t come near Jackie without proof and she isn’t the one that broke the bastard’s hand.

  He wouldn’t believe a damn spirit did it and I get away with it; that’s all that matters, and he had it coming. If he just kept his inebriated body to himself, I wouldn’t
have to resort to violence.

  I do have to thank him for letting me discover this new occurrence.

  When we leave the crowd and back to the gate, she gets stopped by security and she has to come up with an excuse about going home to cook dinner. They let her go after a couple of questions because their walkie talkies had been reporting what’s happening by the concert stage.

  They don’t suspect Jackie, and I can see why; her appearance is of a vulnerable girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly, she doesn’t have the physicality to break bones.

  I, on the other hand, could do more damage if I had a physical body.

  The man was lucky. I do not tolerate Jackie being the object of repulsive actions.

  “Walk straight home,” I tell her as she turns down the sidewalk.

  We have been here for about three hours given the position of the sun, and she should be home by four if she can get through the number of cars passing through the intersection.

  The lights take too long to change and it’s short for pedestrians, and Jackie makes it to the other side with other people in their festival outfits. They stand out as everyone in this city is either in casual clothing or sleek business attire.

  We walk home in silence. I take the time to scout the area to see if anyone is following her. It’s a precaution to see whether the man who I had snapped the wrist of comes to get revenge for something she hadn’t done, but Jackie would be the answer to the mystery as she is the one closest to him.

  I wish I could have cracked his ribs; that would cause more pain than a broken wrist.

  Jackie fumbles with her keys and rushes into her home to lock the door hurriedly. She pets the fabric above her heart with wide eyes. She waits for answers after taking off her shoes and sinking into her couch.

  “So…” she begins, licking her dry lips with her pretty little tongue.

  I stifle a growl at the teasing flick, “Don’t worry about it.”