by Ofelia Grand
Falling Through
by
Ofelia Gränd
Beaten Track
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
Falling Through
First published 2016 by Beaten Track Publishing
Copyright © 2016 Ofelia Gränd
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978 1 78645 056 2
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
Travis is running himself ragged. He’s trying to keep two jobs just to pay his rent. If he has to flirt with some creepy old women at the pub to get a little extra tip money then so be it. One day, he’ll have someone special waiting for him when he gets back home from work, or is that too much to ask? Right now isn’t the best of times to get a boyfriend anyway since Travis is going mad, but one day… Every so often, Travis gets the feeling of not being alone, and sometimes, he sees things. But he tries to stay positive; maybe there’s a strapping young fella waiting for him in the looney bin.
Larry’s existence was dead boring until Travis moved in. Now he spends his time watching Travis, fantasising about touching him, kissing him… Their movie nights would be a bit cosier if Travis knew he was there, but sometimes, you have to settle for what you can get. As far as roommates go, Travis is the best Larry has ever had, and it isn’t Travis’s fault he can’t see Larry—no one has been able to since the day he died.
When Travis loses one of his jobs, both he and Larry fear for their future. Larry can’t imagine being without Travis, and Travis is desperate to find a way to pay his bills. While Travis searches for a solution to his money problems Larry has to decide if he’s willing to risk existence as he knows it for a chance of a better life.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Al Stewart, Amy Spector, Bealevon Nolan, Debbie McGowan, and everyone else who has been involved in making this story happen. You make writing fun!
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
An Unnoticed Existence
Going Mad
Retro Men and Mirrors
A Man to Touch
Taking a Chance
I See You
About the Author
By the Author
Beaten Track Publishing
An Unnoticed Existence
Larry bounced on the balls of his feet. Travis needed to wake up now if he was going to make it. Larry had to fight the urge to run his hands through his hair in frustration. If only it would’ve helped to shout. Well, it might help the frustration, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. No one would hear him, no matter how loud he was. With each second slipping by, the chance of Travis ever getting to work on time got smaller and smaller.
Larry shouldn’t get agitated, but it was hard to ignore the ticks from the kitchen clock as they drifted all the way into the bedroom. Shadows shouldn’t care about the humans around them, but he liked living with Travis, liked looking at Travis, liked pretending…
He often found himself smiling at Travis’s funny little quirks, like the way he grumbled when his tousled brown hair refused to cooperate in the mornings. He liked watching Travis’s brows crease in concentration as he wrote down his numbers, how he rubbed his chin when he thought, and when he allowed himself to laugh at something on the TV. He definitely liked watching Travis in the shower. There wasn’t much entertainment around here, and Larry wouldn’t let a chance like that pass him by. It never got old, watching the suds run down his lithe body. But no matter how much he liked watching Travis, the absolute best thing about him was that he didn’t make much noise—and he never brought any obnoxious friends over.
Larry shuddered as he recalled the young woman who had lived here before Travis. If he hadn’t been dead already, he might have tried to take his life then.
That was the main reason he was going out of his mind from watching Travis sleep when he should be on his way to work. Of course it was.
If he didn’t get there in time, he might lose his job, and even though Travis hated working at the hotel, Larry needed him to do it. Every month was a struggle, and without the receptionist job, Travis couldn’t pay the rent. Larry didn’t want to live with anyone other than Travis. For the first time in an eternity, Larry was happy where he was.
Shaking his head, he went up to the bed. What could he do?
A few more seconds ticked by, and Larry once again had the urge to run his hands through his hair. He climbed up on the bed next to Travis, focused on not slipping through, and jumped up and down on his knees.
Nothing happened. He couldn’t feel the pressure of the mattress against his legs, and the sheets didn’t as much as crease. He’d known they wouldn’t, intellectually, but it was still disturbing to see.
After sixty years of being trapped in the same flat, Larry knew what he could and couldn’t do. To be honest, almost everything fell into the couldn’t-do category.
Sometimes it sucked being a shadow.
He bent down and blew some air on Travis. His dishevelled brown hair actually did move a little, and Larry was delighted to see him wrinkle his nose. One glance at the clock on the bedside table told him Travis had about two minutes to wake if there was to be even the slightest chance of him making it to work on time, and only then if he forwent both breakfast and a shower.
“Stop it.”
Larry froze as Travis flung an arm out. For the briefest moment, his hand connected and then went right through Larry’s chest. He shivered as his body filled with ice. It always started at his toes and fingertips, only to rush in and explode in his chest. Razor-sharp shards pierced his core—a truly unpleasant experience Larry wouldn’t mind never having to live through ever again. He filled his lungs—twenty years of breathing was hard to rid yourself of—and concentrated on Travis again.
He mumbled something incomprehensible and turned around, his mouth slightly open as his breaths once again deepened.
The hell with it. Larry stomped out into the kitchen, his steps soundless on the old scarred floorboards.
It had been years since he’d tried to pick something up, but now he focused all his energy to his fingers. They weren’t supposed to affect the physical world in any way, though Larry didn’t know why. An involuntary shiver went through him as pictures of Queen Loraine flashed before his eyes. With her china-doll face, it had taken Larry a few moments to realise the danger she presented. He would not risk standing before her again. Once had been quite enough.
He took a deep breath—lots of breathing going on today—and gripped the knob on the cooker. It took a while before it stopped sliding through his fingers, but once he’d managed to get them solid enough, he turned it. The stove plate flared red in a few seconds; the modern stoves were much faster than the old ones.
He recalled the gas cooker the flat had been equipped with when he was growing up. There were no problems setting fire to something when it had been around. There were other issues with those, though. He grimaced as he remembered his mother on all fours with her head in the oven. He hadn’t known how powerless he was until that day.
It had been a few weeks after his death, weeks of her crying and shouting and trying to cope with losing not just one but both of her children. Luckily, it was much harder to off yourself in a gas oven than people thought, and his mother hadn’t done any reading on the subject. She had still bee
n conscious when his dad had arrived home from work, and it had been the end of the gas cooker. His dad had thrown it out the same day.
Shaking himself from his memory, Larry glanced at the clock. Bloody hell! There is no way Travis will make it.
He reached for a paper tissue and concentrated so hard the kitchen swam before his eyes. This would be the last thing he did today; all his energy resources had been used up.
He grabbed the tissue, felt it between his fingers, even if it was only a numb sort of feeling. Lifting it, his concentration flickered, and he uttered a sound of frustration as the soft white paper slipped through his fading fingers. He watched it sway in the air and land on the cooker. It didn’t go where he’d wanted it to. A plastic spatula lay right next to the tissue—dirty, of course. If there was one complaint Larry had about Travis, it was his habit of leaving dirty dishes everywhere.
Carefully, he blew at the tissue, and after a few tries, he managed to get about half of it on the hot-stove plate. It will have to do.
He paced back and forth in the small kitchen. It had the same cupboards now as it had when his family had lived there; the only difference was the girl who had lived there before Travis had painted them grey. Grey! Larry snorted. Who wanted a grey kitchen? His mother had loved the light-green cabinet doors.
Seconds ticked by. What was taking so long? Smoke rose from the tissue but no flames. He turned around and walked up to the blue-grey wall where the clock hung. Travis wouldn’t make it. Fifteen minutes ’til his shift starts. Larry couldn’t remember how many minutes it took to get to the hotel, probably close to ten even if Travis ran.
The sound of the tissue catching fire made him turn around. Finally! The flames grew taller. He shot a look at the fire detector right outside the kitchen doorway. Why hasn’t it gone off? With a huff, he walked towards it.
He took the time to run a hand over his perfectly styled hair—not through it, over it. Thankfully, Charles hadn’t messed it up too badly before the dreaded moment. He wondered if it would’ve been permanently tangled if he had. Larry didn’t want to remember that day. He wished his brother hadn’t caught him kissing Charles on the staircase, but he was glad he’d had as much pomade in his hair as he had. Would’ve been a shame to spend eternity looking like crap.
Standing there, under the fire detector, Larry realised something was missing, or not something—it! The entire fire detector was gone and only a white plastic plate fastened to the ceiling remained. He didn’t have a heartbeat, but it didn’t stop him from feeling a stutter inside his ribcage. What have I done?
He ran back into the kitchen, the tissue mostly soot now, but the spatula was nowhere near yet. The plastic had turned into a melted puddle with flames dancing over it.
Larry reached for the tea towel hanging on the oven handle, but it kept slipping through his fingers. His chest rose and fell as if he needed oxygen to focus. He put all his efforts into making his see-through fingers a little less so. Finally, he managed to slide the towel from the handle and up onto the stove plate. It didn’t smother the fire, though. The flames licked the fabric faster than Larry had imagined possible, and he frantically began to beat at them. Problem was his hands went right through flames, towel and stove. There was nothing he could do.
Panic clawed at his throat as he ran back to the bedroom. He was about to kill Travis—how could he go on if he killed Travis? Nausea tied his innards in knots.
Larry threw himself on the bed, or rather he threw himself on Travis only to sink through him, and almost through the mattress, too.
“Travis! Travis! Wake up!” He couldn’t be heard, but he still yelled at the top of his lungs. He climbed up from his sunken-through position and straddled Travis. This time, he managed to at least stay hovering above him. “Travis!”
With all the force and energy he had, he smacked his palms against Travis’s chest, and for a moment, the T-shirt connected with his skin, but then his hands vanished again.
“Wake up, you fool!”
Travis sucked in a breath as his eyes flew open. They widened, and for a split second, Larry’s own eyes reflected in Travis’s, but then the reflection was gone—he was gone.
Travis stumbled out of bed, but Larry was unable to follow. Black dots invaded his vision, blocking out more and more of Travis’s backside as he walked away and left Larry to his destiny. He shuddered. There was nothing worse than the Nothingness. He wished he could fall asleep like a human, but even in the terrible darkness, he continued to be aware.
***
Travis couldn’t believe his eyes. A burning tea towel lay on the cooker. How the hell did that happen?
He turned off the stove before rushing over to the sink and filling a bowl with water, which he poured over the burning towel. As the flames extinguished, Travis looked over his shoulder. Had someone been in the flat while he slept?
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There had been someone, had to have been. His veins filled with ice. Someone had shaken him—there had been hands on his chest; he was sure of it. He’d even seen someone—maybe. When he first opened his eyes, there had been a young man leaning over him, or had there? He’d been sure he’d seen a pair of hazel eyes, but then he’d blinked.
He rubbed his chest. It must’ve been a dream. No one could disappear that fast.
He went to check the front door—locked—but Travis still couldn’t rid himself of the uneasy feeling settling in his gut.
The kitchen appeared untouched apart from the towel. No sounds could be heard. Surely, if someone was here, they would move, or breathe?
All he heard was the sound of the kitchen clock, the steady tick-tock indicating seconds passing by even though Travis stood frozen. Or he did until he noticed the time. Fuck! His boss would kill him.
Going Mad
Travis rubbed his chin and looked away. He hoped Mrs. Dixon couldn’t see the way his eyes brimmed with tears. If only he could swallow the stupid lump that insisted on blocking his throat, he might be able to talk.
“I overslept.” He was proud he managed to keep his voice fairly steady.
“I don’t care. It’s not the first time, and I can’t have unreliable people working here.”
Unreliable? Travis worked every shift they wanted him to; he always stayed late if there was a need for it. He sometimes even worked in the kitchen if they were short on staff. He’d done everything he’d been able to the last two years—to please the manager, to gain a more secure position. And he was tired, so fucking tired. He worked all hours of the day, all days of the week, every shift he could get, and for what? “I was working the night shift at the Speckled Hen. I wasn’t home until four this morning.”
“See what I mean?” Mrs. Dixon raised her pencilled brows and pursed her lips. “Instead of making sure you came in on time for work this morning, you spent the night in a dirty pub.”
“To work! I work in that pub.”
Mrs. Dixon shook her head. “I have a hard time believing your parents would agree to that.”
Travis took a deep breath. His parents didn’t give a shit. They’d never given a shit about what he did as long as he’d stuck to their rules. He couldn’t, and now they cared even less. “I’m twenty-three. I’m not only capable of making my own decisions, I’m also legally old enough to work in a bar.” Travis wouldn’t call the Speckled Hen a ‘bar’, more a run-down pub where people came to have a beer and eat some greasy food. There were a few drunks, and on occasion, people came there to celebrate, but overall, it was a quiet place to be.
“That might be true.” She pursed her lips again, and the hopelessness Travis had tried to force down since she’d shown him into her office quickly turned to burning anger. She’s one smug bitch. “But, as I said, I’m running a business here. We’re a respectable hotel, and I can’t have people coming in late, stinking of beer and yesterday’s pub menu.”
Travis didn’t smell. He’d had a shower before bed, and he hadn’t been working the bar
, so there hadn’t been any beer on him.
“There are too many better-suited workers out there. Your final pay will come at the end of the month. Now, get out of here.”
Travis got up and left the office. He didn’t talk to any of the other employees as he went out through the lobby. How would he be able to pay his bills now?
For a split second, he considered calling his mother, but he quickly squashed the idea. He would not give his parents the satisfaction of seeing him fail.
***
The rain smattered against the window as Larry smoothed out his hair with a comb. He wasn’t sure if it counted as a comb since it probably couldn’t be seen by anyone but himself. He’d had it in his back pocket when he’d died, and when he’d woken up again, it had still been there, a ghost like him. Neat, really, since picking up a solid comb had proved to be difficult, and he needed to fix his hair after having spent the day in the Nothingness.
The buzz from the TV in the living room reached him as he ran his hand over his hair; it seemed to be in order. Travis didn’t often have the time to watch TV. He was always working. Larry didn’t get it. He worked, and worked, and worked, and yet he always fretted over money.
Larry walked towards the noise. He longed to spend some time with Travis, even though Travis couldn’t see him, or hear him…or touch him. Larry wanted to feel the heat from Travis’s body, wanted to see his chestnut hair all messy because Larry had threaded his fingers through it. He wanted to feel those lips against his own, see Travis’s almost grey eyes light up with desire.
It would never happen, though.
Larry shuddered as he remembered the hand going through his chest earlier today, or, at least, he hoped it still was the same day. He hated when he got the time mixed up. Instead of thinking about the Nothingness, he let his thoughts wander back to Travis. What would it be like if his hands didn’t go right through him?