Pink Kolmteist
The girl in the turquoise skirt comes again to flitter in the mindless breeze across my viewscreen as I haughtily ignore her.
A part of me considers Shambal a prophet. I despise prophets. A girl in a skirt so bright that I am blinded whilst trying to scope her legs walks by in intervals of approximately 13 minutes. Her earrings are also turquoise. They swing most likely to the beat that pulses through the earbuds above them. She cannot possibly be trotting to the rhythm, though, as her steps are erratic. Perhaps she is tipsy. I wouldn’t be surprised. After all, I am.
She never looks at me. I’m not too bothered since I consider myself at least transluscent, if not already completely transparent. If I am becoming like Shambal, it’s not really my fault. He is infectious. I’m not just talking about the sores on his skin.
I think he was referring to this girl in his last note. So, I must be haughty and ignore her. She ignores me, as I already mentioned, so my task is not difficult. She is not a replacement for Natascha, but an eidolon of Natascha. The corporeal are the real wraiths - especially to us ghosts. I said I am at least transluscent and I meant it.
She comes round again, shuffling on the sidewalk in the gait of a crippled goat. I concentrate enough this time to examine her legs. They are healthy enough. They are smooth and creamy. I’d reach out to touch, but I’d be disappointed that my hand wouldn’t just pass through. I fantasize this is a time loop. She experiences the same circuit around the park. Her death and rebirth are at the moment she passes a few metres in front of me.
The thought makes me feel Godlike. I think of Shambal and laugh. The girl is either out of earshot or ignores me. Or perhaps the corporeal cannot hear the transluscent.
Percussive shouts from muted strings beg tension from the illicit calm.
I’m actually sinking into the bench. If I don’t rise at some point soon, I’ll become one with it and forever be a part of this place. At least the skirted girl will be with me, though she won’t know it. Her stumbling steps make more sense on each revolution.
They have a pattern.
Every time one of her sneakers touches the concrete, a claw squeezes my brain. It’s attached to a wrist and forearm. They protrude from the upper back of my cranium. Farther back, there is a body. Atop perches a misshappen, slightly ovoid head. A smile cracks its lower third, but there are no other features.
The claw squeezes every time a sneaker hits the concrete. The squeal of strings played by an incompetent violist shouts from my neurons to the tips of my extremeties. Try as I might, I can’t even suppress an erection.
