Fiction: Conversations with ghosts

This month's Words for Wednesday prompts are provided by  Alex J. Cavanaugh which is hosted at Elephant's Child's blog over here. Last week's prompts are: specter, mountains, puppies, nature, cockamamie, burnt and/or carving, zombie, dongle, foliage, candlelight, crapulence. This weeks prompts are: sword, hogwash, cactus, ghost, silver, rivers and/or spirits, potato, nincompoop, indigo, gemstones, learning. I couldn't fit in 'rivers.'

Fiction: Conversations with ghosts

"You're a specter. You're dead. Get over it."
    "What do you mean I'm a specter? What cockamamie are you spewing? Do pigs fly now? Are mountains falling down? Has mother nature brew her tops and the world ended?"
    Seventeen stared at the slightly transparent ghost for a few moments trying to decide if she should answer the dumb questions or just punch him in the nose.
    "Ow!" He rubbed his nose. "Why did you punch me? And why did I feel pain and yet it was almost as if it didn't...happen." He looked up at her.
    It wasn't a nice feeling to touch a ghost but sometimes Seventeen have to make a point. Certainly the cold feeling was not nice. She sat back down and picked up the burnt toast and took a small bite. If only she could go to Tony's for breakfast.
    "Answer me!" The ghost furrowed his eyebrows.
    Seventeen tossed the toast back onto her plate and stood up. "For the love of puppies, which question am I suppose to answer? If I say you're a ghost, excuse me, specter, then you're a specter. It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. Just look at yourself and look at me, do you see a difference? And I have already answered your questions six times, no, make that seven times. Isn't it enough?"
    "Can't you pity me a little?" He lowered his head, eyes down toward the cracked wooden floor.
    "Pity?" She scoffed. "Why don't you pity me? This toast? My breakfast? It's burned because my toaster doesn't work and I can't afford to get a new one. This apartment? It's full of cockroaches the size of your palm. See that faucet? It's leaking day and night and the ass landlord is taking forever to fix it but still charges me for the leaking water." She walked to the window on the other side of the room and lifted the dull yellow curtains. "Do you see the sky out there? What time do you think it is now?"
    He turned his head to look. "I... don't know. 6, 8 in the morning?"
    "It's freaking 4:30 am! Even zombies don't wake up this early! Have you heard of manners?" Seventeen sat back down by the table. She stared at the toast. Eat or don't eat, what difference does it make? She sniffed and pulled up the collar of her coat. If only her portable heater wasn't broken, she wouldn't have gotten a cold.
    A cough sounded. Seventeen looked up. An old man wearing a well-pressed black suit stood by the kitchen sink. "Hello," he said.
    "What the hell do you want?" Seventeen hadn't seen him before but that didn't matter.
    "Nothing much. If you could just tell my wife something important, that would be great." Even under the dull light, the coffee stains on the man's straight teeth was quite clear.
    "No time, sorry. Find someone else." She picked up her plate with the toast and walked toward the sink. The man stepped aside. She opened the cabinet door below the sink and dumped the toast into the trash bin.
    "But I really need your help. She doesn't know—"
    "Stop right there." She put the empty plate in the sink and turned around. "What part of 'Find someone else' do you not understand?"
    "I would find someone else but I've been looking for ages and—"
    "I know. You're desperate and you need my help and you would be so grateful if I can do you this favor." She grinned.
    "Yes, yes, that's it. So are you free to see my wife?" The old man smiled and the lines beneath his eyes deepened.
    Seventeen picked up the butterknife from the bowl of utensils on the counter. "Sure. I'm free to kill your wife. What's her name? Where does she live?"
    The man took a step back. "I said, 'see my wife' not 'kill' her."
    "Oh, you want her death to be quick and painless? I can do that." Seventeen looked around her kitchen and then looked back at the man. "I only have this butterknife. It's a little dull but I think it will do the job just fine. Would you like me to carve something on her face?"
    The man held up his hands. "Listen, Miss, I think..."
    "Yes? What do you think? Ah, probably should wait until she wakes up. I mean, there's no point in killing someone who is asleep, right? She should know who her killer is." She grinned. "Shall we shake on it?" She grabbed his hand and stabbed the knife through his opened palm and pull the knife out. No blood, no signs of damage.
    "That didn't hurt." The man chuckled. But his eyes widened and then he shrieked and grabbed his 'stabbed' hand. "You shouldn't have been able to hurt me! I'm a ghost!"
    "So? Want me to help you now?" Seventeen rubbed her nose. It was too cold to get up this early. The November sun hadn't touched the inside of her apartment for days.
    "No, no, no. I should go. And—and— find someone else. Bye!" He turned around and disappeared through the wall.
    She dropped the knife back onto the table and sat down. The cactus in the silver bowl on the table had turned dried. She couldn't tell if it was dead or that was how it should looked. The fake indigo gemstones glued around the bowl had fallen off leaving only two in place. Why did she buy the stupid plant?
    "Um... Excuse me, are you Seventeen?"
    Seventeen looked up at the girl ghost who was maybe ten or twelve years old. Her short black hair was cut like a bowl over her head.
    "No, I'm twenty-five." Seventeen stared at the girl. She was not a newbie but Seventeen hadn't seen her before.
    "Haha. Nice joke. I mean, are you Seventeen Won, the ghost whisperer?" The girl smiled making her cheek puffed up.
    "No. I'm not the ghost whisperer or whatever." Seventeen was sure she had closed all the windows but there was a draft somehow.
    "Excuse me, missy. I was here first." The other ghost was eyeing the new visitor.
    The girl turned to the man. "I-I- I didn't know there was a line. You– go first. Please!" The girl took a few steps back toward the other side of the room.
    The other ghost turned to Seventeen. "Miss Won?"
    "You're still here?" Seventeen took a sip of the hot, black coffee. It was bitter as usual, just like her life.
     "I'm sorry that I woke you so early but since you're awake, you can tell me what happened to me. Couldn't you?" The ghost smiled tentatively. The man was probably in his late forties with thinning hair and thick black-rimmed glasses.
    "You want me to explain for the eighth time what happened to you? The first seven times wasn't clear enough? Ah, you thought I was lying the first seven times? Okay then. Let me think." She looked up at the stained ceiling and then back down at the cactus. "Yes, I got it. You were chopping a tree down for your Christmas party and you accidentally stabbed yourself in the most embarrassing place. Yes, that's it. No, no, that's some other nincompoop. You choked on a dongle. No, wait! My mistake. That was some other idiot. You... What's that c word that means you crapped yourself? Crapulence? No, not quite the right word but it sounds kind of right but no, that was some other dumb person. I remember now. You were killed by dried foliage. Yes! You had a bright idea of eating foliage to clear your system. No, that was fruitcake guy. Gosh, there are so many dumb deaths lately, I get them all mixed up." She took another sip of the coffee. "I remember now. You were practicing sword fighting and you stabbed yourself in the leg. No, no, that's some blind guy. No. I got it. You ate a potato and choked. No, wait. I was me last week. Really should learn to chew more thoroughly. Wait! I got it now. You held a candlelight vigil for your friend inside your house only you forgot to open the windows. That's it. Terrible way to die. Just fall asleep and never wake up again." She shook her head.
    "You're— Those are lies, aren't they?" He pointed a finger at her.
    "Of course not. The first seven times were lies." She grinned.
    "Give me a proper answer or—or—or— I'll burn this place down down." He dug into his pants pockets and pulled out a matchbox and held it out.
    She really hated new ghosts. Their minds were like sponges - they soaked up information easily but then squeezed them out just as easily. "Fine. Do it. See if my desire to tell you anything increase when you make me homeless but make sure not to kill yourself a second time. That would be spectacularly embarrassing for a college professor."   
    "Hogwash! I wouldn't do that. I'm a collage professor." He dropped his hand with the matchbox.
    "Okay, fine! I'll tell you the eighth time. You went to your ex-wife's house and set it on fire. Your ex-wife and her husband got out but genius, that you are, you locked yourself in the kitchen thinking you can get out the backdoor but no, the backdoor was blocked because your ex-wife wanted to put in a new pantry and move the door to the other end of room only they haven't gotten around to it yet. If you have checked before you went there, you might have known that. Thank the spirits, you're still here. But... still kind of dead. Got that? Now get out!" She pointed at the door though why she did that when no ghosts ever used the door.
    He stared at her. "I couldn't have done that. I'm not dumb. I'm a collage professor."
    "Yeah, yeah, tell it to your shrink. Are you going to leave? Or do you want me to show you how a butterknife works?" She picked up the butterknife and stood up.
    He turned, stumbled, got up and fled through the wall. Seventeen turned to the girl.
    "I think I should come back later. When you're more free!" The girl turned around and vanished through the wall.
    Seventeen sat down. She turned to her left. The fourth ghost widened his eyes. "I was just leaving." He rushed through the door.
     Seventeen slammed the butterknife down on the table. She should have learned to expect these uninvited visitors but how could she when none of them had any type of schedule or manners? They disturbed her day to day life and yet, there was no evidence of their visits aside from her anxious mind. But at least, she could hurt them if she needed to. But what did any of it matter? She was becoming closer and closer to becoming one of them.