billowing
moonrise. something pulls kurtis gently from their grave. awake in the guest room, no dirt under their fingernails. to their death-sight, dusk as fresh and bright as the daybreak. they wonder if it's like that for everyone.
smooth rumble of sacha's car, queens greeting them with air-kisses. ostrich feathers tickle their neck, the coat worn like a hug from their companion. they adjust their wig in the dressing room mirror. sacha fixes their eyebrow. it's nice to belong somewhere.
on stage, twirling to bubblegum pop, lips perfectly forming the words to aqua's "roses are red." stage fright doesn't hold the same power over you when you're dead. a king leaps onto the stage to perform the male vocals. platform boots, punchy motions. short-notice rehearsal, effortless collaboration. at the bridge, they plant their go-go boots on either side of their co-entertainer, shaking out a shower of rose petals from the layers of their skirt. the crowd erupts; the reveal takes even sacha by surprise. they beam when their eyes meet, radiating wild, infectious joy. they feel alive, more alive than when their heart was still beating.
sometimes lucidity pays them a visit. other times it's fun simply to pretend it's real, to pretend that they're alive in a world that wants them. beloved, breathing. pretty part-time girl. the death-dream had offered all sorts of experiences they weren't granted in life.
were they glad, then, to be dead? no. yes. no. but they could never deny it was beautiful. everyone wants to know what awaits them, and ghosts were good at keeping their secrets.
when they step out of the venue, the street is alive with color. auras rise from the dissipating crowd, smoky strokes of a painting blending with the golden haze of atlanta's street lamps. hypnotic swirls of neon against concrete. there are messages in the colors that they can't decipher. they track a billowing trail to a dance club. from there, sacha's hand finds their shoulder to guide them.
of course. it makes sense that sacha was sent to them as a guide, to walk them through this strange false existence and to encourage their self-exploration. that's why their spirit couldn't rest: they had died before they even knew who they were. ilya's presence was a memory of what they left behind, her sad eyes a reminder that their decision had hurt more than just themself. and jamie--the boy they fed their blood in symbolic exchange--he showed them what it was like to feel needed.
everything here had a meaning, even if it took some work to figure it out.
so when they find themself straddling a strange boy behind the building, his neck clammy with drying dance-sweat and their face dripping with his blood, they wonder what the significance of it is.
hands shaking, fingers shaking, dragged through the tight bleached curls of their crown. it isn't real, the way the boy isn't real, the way they aren't real, not anymore.
body cooling. eyes vacant, empty as the grave they never could locate. blood heavy on their tongue, coating their tightening throat. guilt-sick. vision turns red, thick crimson tears sliding down their face, makeup swept up in the tide.
a palm upon their back. sacha's voice lowered to a gentle coo, any comfort it offers drowned out by their own thoughts.
they search the scene for a symbol, a metaphor, a lesson, anything.
it has to mean something.