Laughroditee's Playground 🤡🎪

Mood music:

Simon’s eyes widened, and he dropped me like I burned him, my ass hitting the floor hard enough that I knew I would be dealing with the pain for a while.  He took several steps backward, staring at me in disbelief.

Shifting the weight off of my bruised bum, I whimpered, cursing under my breath.

”Ye alright, lass?”  Johnny knelt by me, ghost hands hovering around my arms as if he wanted to help me up.

“Yeah,” I said.  “Guess I won’t be sending anyone any butt pictures for a while.”

“If ye can make jokes, you’ll be just fine.”  Despite saying that, he still looked worried.  “He’s not usually like this, Evangeline, I promise ye.”

I nodded.  While I believed him, it didn’t make the situation easy to stomach.  “I get it, he’s grieving.  Or more like actively avoiding it,” I muttered.  My eyes flicked up to the man in question where he stood, still half naked and covered in scars, with that wild skull mask on his face, his eyes wide.

Johnny put his hand on my shoulder and spoke through me again.  Being used like a ventriloquist dummy felt slightly like vomiting, though marginally less unpleasant.  Still, compulsion felt very weird.  “Simon, this is Evangeline, my li’l American kinswoman.  Take care of ‘er, yeah?”  

Even though I could only see the skin around Simon’s eyes, it visibly paled.

Johnny was having too much fun to cede control of my vocals just yet, though.  “Och, yer lookin’ a wee bit peely wally, love.  Maybe ye should stop fuckin’ drownin’ yerself in drink, ya bawbag!”

“This is fuckin’ mad,” Simon said, sinking onto the sofa and staring at us.  Rather, at me specifically, since Johnny was a ghost and couldn’t be seen by anyone but me for whatever reason.  How lucky.  Simon reached up and pulled off his balaclava, revealing a dazed oval-shaped face peppered with scars and about three days' worth of stubble.  His short, sandy blonde hair went every which way on his head, fair lashes blinking absently over his dark, glassy eyes.  He looked like his world had just been turned upside down again, or maybe he was considering the possibility that he was losing his mind.  Both were valid thoughts, to be fair.

With Johnny’s hands on me, I could sense a mixture of emotions coming from him as he looked at his boyfriend, ranging from love and relief at seeing Simon’s face to worry at seeing how much the alcohol messed him up.  His emotional tone shifted back to “nag,” but before he could say anything else, I scooted away, breaking contact.

“STOP USING MY MOUTH WITHOUT MY PERMISSION TO YELL AT YOUR BOYFRIEND!”

Johnny had the nerve to roll his eyes.  “Fine, can I please borrow yer mouth to yell at my boyfriend?”

“No, it feels weird.  I'll do it for you.  Just tell me what you want to say.” He then proceeded to say a string of words that were definitely not English, and I wasn't sure I could even replicate the sounds by myself; I was never good with accents.  “You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?”

The bastard grinned. “Och, aye.  I just want a chance to use that pretty li’l mouth of yours again, hen.”

“That sounds all sorts of wrong.”

“Not wrong if everyone consents.”

“Johnny!”

“What?  At least make him tell you where he’s hidin’ his drink.  If he hasn’t pissed it all away already.”

“You are so bossy!  Was he always this bossy?”  I directed the question toward Simon, and the weird atmosphere made me forget to be afraid of him.  It was challenging to stay scared of him when he looked like a confused kid who just woke up from a nightmare.  Unfortunately for him, this nightmare was real.

“I prefer the term ‘persistent,’ lass,” Johnny said.

“Maybe we should work on getting Simon sober,” I suggested to Johnny as I pushed myself to my feet, wincing slightly.  Though I knew I’d be fine in the long run, it didn’t change the fact that I had been hauled into the air and then dropped on my ass like a sack of potatoes by a man more than a foot taller than me and probably ten times as strong.  To say I was mildly apprehensive about being here would be an understatement.  I approached the sofa warily, edging toward Simon slowly as if he were a wounded animal.  Which… the comparison wasn’t too far off.  “Can I get you some water, Simon?”

He just stared at me.

Alrighty then.  “Johnny?  Show me where the glasses are?”

“Copy that,” he said, leading the way through the kitchen and stopping before the designated cabinet.

Ignoring the feel of Simon's eyes on me, I moved through his kitchen to grab a glass.  “The floor is sticky,” I observed.  Small puddles of drying alcohol decorated the ground like forgotten watercolor paintings of amber hues.

“Had a spill,” Simon explained simply, raking a large hand over his face.

“Spill my arse,” Johnny spat.  “He was waterboarding himself.  Pouring bourbon over his fucking face with that bloody mask on.  Yer oot yer face ya twat!” he yelled at his boyfriend, though Simon couldn’t hear him.

Water filled the glass as I turned to Simon, my face horrified.  “You were waterboarding yourself?  With bourbon?”

Simon stared back at me with a suspicious, bewildered look, which may have been funny if not for the context.  The expression melted into a sullen frown; it was all I needed as confirmation.  He looked like he wanted to ask me how I knew.

“Johnny told me,” I explained without waiting for him to ask.  I came back and handed him the glass of water.  “Here.  Drink up.”

Accepting the glass numbly, Simon kept his eyes on me, examining me in a way that was downright uncomfortable for a person who doesn't like to be perceived.  I was relieved when he glanced around me, presumably trying to see his late lover.  “He’s talkin’ shite again, is he?”

I scoffed fondly.  “Isn’t he always?”

Simon grunted.

Johnny came to sit next to Simon on the sofa, leaving me to stand over them both.  “Make him drink it,” he murmured as he stared at his boyfriend.  I could feel the pain and yearning radiating off of him, and it was enough to make me turn away.

Simon was still staring at me when I looked at him again.

“He wants you to drink the water, Simon,” I said gently, gesturing to the glass in his hand.  

He dutifully drank the water, looking around the room again.  “Where…?”

“Where is he?”

Simon nodded.

“He’s next to you on the couch over here.”  I pointed to where Johnny sat beside a tartan pillow with a Scottish flag.  Johnny stared intently at him as if willing his boyfriend to be able to see him.

Simon’s eyes searched the seat, but with no hint of recognition, he didn’t know exactly where he was.

Covering his pain with a smirk, Johnny said, “Tell ‘im to stop starin’ at my cock.”

“I’d rather not tell him that, actually, thank you.”

Unfortunately, that got Simon’s attention.  “Tell me what?”

“Fucking Johnny…,” I sighed.

The mischief-maker laughed while Simon waited for me to deliver the message. 

“Fine, he said to ‘stop staring at his cock.’”

Two seconds passed before Simon let out a single, loud laugh, a startled smile on his face that said that, until this moment, he had been so sure he would never be able to smile again.  “He would say that, wouldn’t he?”  He looked back to the spot next to him with unbridled affection.  “Fuckin’ wanker.”

Johnny chuckled, the sound muted by an underlying melancholy.  It made me wish that I could do something more for him.  For both of them.  Of all the people to ask for help, Johnny had to get stuck with me.  I wondered if there were other blood ties he could have followed, maybe to a more skilled person than myself.  A love this strong had to go somewhere, right?

And then an idea took me.  It was a stupid idea, of course, and I didn't know if it would work, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt like it could be the only thing I could contribute.  Kneeling by where Johnny sat on the couch, I rested my elbow on the cushion with my hand up, almost like I was threatening to arm wrestle Simon. 

Johnny smirked.  “Afraid yer gonna be a wee bit disappointed with the results there, chum.”

I returned his smirk.  “No, I want to try something.  Put your hand here,” I told him, gesturing to my hand and wiggling my fingers.

Looking curious, Johnny obliged and played along, placing his hand on mine.  It passed right through, making him frown.

“Hmm, try thinking like you’re putting on a glove,” I suggested, not that I knew what I was doing.   

“Alright,” he said.  While Johnny concentrated a little more, I focused on opening up my hand metaphysically until I could feel his presence filling the space.  It was cold and alien — feeling someone else’s spirit inside me — and I shivered.

Pushing the physical sensation aside, I reached my other hand out to Simon.  “Your turn.”

His wary gaze had a calculating edge, which I was beginning to understand was Simon’s default mode, at least around strangers. 

“Take my hand.  I just want to try something.”  When he didn’t move, I added, “Johnny’s cooperating with me.”  I may or may not have sounded mildly tart when I said it.

Callused skin engulfed mine as Simon smothered my hand with his, and I brought it to the hand Johnny was occupying.  Next to me, Johnny’s breath caught in his throat.

“I can feel that,” he whispered, and all at once, I was filled with an overwhelming maelstrom of his emotions.  The pain of loss, the guilt over dying, the sheer yearning for life and love pouring out of him caused me to pull back, gasping, and I pushed Johnny’s spirit out of me.

Both men looked at me as I tried to catch my breath, my eyes blinking away tears.  “S-sorry…. That was a little overwhelming.”  But, my God, to be loved that much.  To be loved the way these two love each other, I could only hope to be that lucky one day.

“Ye alright?”

“What happened?”  They spoke at once, waiting for me to answer.  

“I’m alright,” I told Johnny.  Taking a deep breath, I turned to Simon and said, “I had Johnny try to possess my hand.” At his eyebrow raise, I rushed to say, “It worked though!”  Shifting so that I was sitting instead of kneeling, I leaned forward toward Simon.  “He felt you, Simon.  Johnny could feel you through my hand.”  I waited for that to sink in, watching the emotions pass through his eyes like a kaleidoscope until he had to look away.  “With his spirit touching mine, I could feel everything that Johnny felt, emotionally speaking.”  Glancing at Johnny showed me that he wasn’t surprised.  Maybe it was a two-way connection.  “Everything kind of bled together, and it was a lot all at once, so I pushed him out.”

Johnny and I watched Simon process the information. His eyes stared down at the empty hand that previously held mine, balling it into a fist and opening it again.

“Can I…?” he asked hesitantly, pointedly not looking at me.

“Can we try again?” Johnny asked, knowing what his boyfriend wanted.

“We can try again if you want.  Johnny wants to try again,” I tell Simon.

“He does?” Simon asked, finally looking at me, his eyes flicking to the empty couch cushion where he knew his boyfriend’s spirit was.

I was about to answer when Johnny asked, “And what do you want, Evangeline?” 

I looked back at him in surprise.  “What do I want?” I repeated for Simon’s sake.  “I just want to help.”

“Why?”  Simon’s low voice was guarded but curious.  “It’s hardly your business, is it?”

“You’re right, it’s not.”  I met his examining gaze with an open one of my own.  “I’m a stranger here.  I don’t know either of you or what you were like together.”  The memory of Johnny’s emotions was so fresh inside me that the thought brought a fresh wave of feeling.  “I just know that if I loved someone the way Johnny loves you… I would want to be able to tell them.  I would want that chance to say goodbye.”  My voice broke on the last word as I looked into Simon’s eyes.  “Wouldn’t you want that?”

He frowned bitterly.  “You can’t save people from their pain.”

“No, I can’t.  But maybe I can help them to face it instead of trying to drown it out with alcohol.”

Johnny blew out a long whistle next to me, but my eyes were still focused on Simon. We stared at each other, locked in a war of grimaces, our brows drawn down tight.  “Alright, ya numpties, set’le down,” he said.

That broke the staring contest.  I blinked.  “What the hell is a ‘numpty?’”

“He’s calling us idiots,” Simon informed me.

“Ah, fair.  So, are we going for round two?  We can go bigger this time.”

“Bigger?  Are ye sure ye want to do this, lass?” Johnny asked with a hint of concern.

“Yeah, I'm sure.  Go big or go home, right?  It's really the only thing I can do for you, and I want to do it.”

He smiled at that.  “Did I ever tell ye yer an angel Evangeline?”

“I’m definitely not an angel, Johnny,” I laughed awkwardly, but the sentiment warmed my heart.

Standing up, I took a deep breath.  “I'm ready, Johnny.  All aboard, let’s go.”  Holding my arms out in welcome, he got off the couch and stepped into my body, overlapping me as I stood there.  It didn’t happen right away.  Johnny was much bigger than me in life, so he had to concentrate on inhabiting a smaller space, filling my physical body as if filling up a glass or a glove and squishing in all of the extra.  Luckily, spirits are flexible and can fill any space if they put their minds to it.  

As I’d done earlier, I concentrated on relaxing and opening up my energetic walls, accepting his presence into me.  But let me just say that it was fucking weird.  Alternating waves of heat and chills rolled through my body as he settled inside me, my limbs jerking and twitching occasionally in a manner that probably looked like I needed an exorcist.  Not now, but maybe later.

And I could feel him, the essence of who and what he was.  Every emotion and emotional memory that passed through Johnny also passed through me; his warm, strong energy made me feel steady and safe.  He feels just like love.  And it was bittersweet.

“Well, isn’t she a wee bonnie thing?” Johnny said as he looked down at my body, moving my arms about, sliding my hands over my hips.  “Told you I’d lose my dick on the battlefield one day, LT,” his laugh made our blue eyes twinkle as we looked up at Simon, whose gaze was complicated.

Johnny and I both could read Simon’s confusion at seeing us this way, and our smile faded.  I didn’t know what I looked like with Johnny’s facial mannerisms showing through on my face — the particular way your eyebrows moved, your lips curled when you smirked, and your eyes squinted when you laughed or smiled.  From Simon’s pained expression, he clearly saw all this on my face.  That, through me, he could see Johnny.

“Ye see me, don’t you, love?” Johnny asked for confirmation as if he could read my thoughts.  Maybe he could.

“I see you,” Simon said quietly, his hands squeezing reflexively at his sides.  “I see you, Johnny.”

We smiled softly, relief flooding our system.  Every emotion was enhanced twofold with the two of us fully in here, and it was a challenge to keep from being overwhelmed and losing myself completely.  Johnny was aching with need, making my fingers itch to touch Simon, to feel his skin on mine — on ours.  I had to take a few cleansing breaths to separate his thoughts and compulsions from mine.  Possession is weird.  

And yet, he didn’t make a move; I could tell that Johnny wanted to give Simon time to adjust.  There was some kind of feeling — something that’s difficult to put into words — almost like trying to coax an abused animal with food and love but accepting that it will come on its own terms.  You leave the door open and wait for them to approach because you don’t want to scare them away.  That was the feeling I got as Simon looked down at us.  Conflict was written all over his face as he lifted his hand near our head, wanting to touch but afraid to.

“It’s alright, love, it’s just me,” Johnny said softly.  “There’s no rush.”

But I knew he was lying.  In the back of our shared consciousness lurked the oppressive shadow of time, and it was only running out. There was only this moment, and never again, not for Johnny, and my heart clenched in my chest.

Something passed through Simon’s eyes, and I wondered if he could pick up on his boyfriend’s bluff because his control slipped.  He trailed his fingers down our cheek to our jaw, tipping our head up and cupping our face like we were something precious.  “Johnny,” he whispered.  “It’s really you.”

We smirked at him, covering his hands with our own.  “Don’t go cryin’ on me now, LT,” Johnny said.

“It should have been me.”

I could feel Johnny’s anguish at hearing Simon’s tormented thoughts out loud, and our brows drew down.  “You hush yerself now, love.  There is no ‘should,’ there’s only what is.  Can’t go back and change anything.  Ye’ll have to keep moving forward.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Johnny insisted, and our hearts broke all together.

Simon shook his head.

“Ye have to.  I want ye to.”  We reached a hand up to his face, the stubble grating at our fingertips as we caressed his cheek.  “Let me be selfish, love.  I want ye to live.”

I could sense Simon's conflicting emotions as we stayed in skin contact.  Wanting to honor your lover’s last wishes while being condemned to what felt like a literal life sentence in the process was no easy thing to stomach.  He looked down at us with such a pained expression that it was difficult to look at him, but Johnny was far braver than I and wouldn’t look away.

“It’s because I love ye, Simon.  And I know ye can take it.”  He knows he can take the pain of existence without him, which is what he meant.  “Ye can move past it.”  Johnny's emotions roiled inside me, his yearning and desperation building to a breaking point. So much love. So much it was almost blinding.  

“Kiss me like yer missin’ me,” Johnny said suddenly, voice low and demanding, hands trailing down Simon's chest.

Simon’s pupils blew wide, and he responded to the demand with a “Fuckin’ hell” before his mouth came crashing down on ours, his large hands pulling our face close, his lips moving with bruising insistence against ours.  Johnny growled into the kiss at the same time that I gasped, and Simon took advantage of our open mouth by invading it with his tongue, desperate to taste every last inch of us.

As the kiss deepened, it felt like he wanted to devour us.  Simon became more frantic, his movements rougher, more urgent.  His hands roamed over our body, exploring every curve as if he was trying to savor the feel of us.  His hands slid down our hips and pulled us against his body, and — oh my god, he’s hard.

That was the exact moment that the careful hold on my metaphysical shields separating me from Johnny — tentative and unskilled though they were — shattered, and Johnny and I dissolved into one another, becoming a mass of hungry hands and mouths, desires and libido.  We pulled at Simon, and, without even breaking the kiss, he lifted us into his arms, our legs wrapping around his waist automatically as his hands went to our ass, squeezing the soft flesh roughly.  He inadvertently squeezed the bruise on our butt from earlier, and we hissed into the kiss, biting his bottom lip.

The responding growl that came out of Simon’s throat gave us chills.  Something low in our belly clenched, and we were instantly wet.  Backing us up against a wall, he kept us pinned with his body between our legs as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down our neck, grazing our flesh with his teeth.  

We hummed as a shiver passed through us, and our greedy hands snaked under his shirt, sliding up his sides, relishing the feel of every inch: skin, muscles, and scars indiscriminately.  Simon pulled back from the kiss to tear his shirt off, tossing it aside before giving our shirt the same treatment.  His tongue traced the length of our collarbone before sucking the skin there, the pinpricks of pain telling us that there would be marks left behind, and we were satisfied by this.  Maybe he could make us a lovely little necklace of cherry bruises to remember this day.

The air was chill without our shirt on, and Johnny’s momentary amusement at having breasts was drowned out as Simon squeezed one of them, and we moaned, “Oh, fuck.”  We felt his lips quirk up against our skin in a smile, and then he rolled his hips against us, and we saw stars.  “Bed!” we gasped, and we didn’t need to say it twice.  Still holding onto us, Simon carried us down the hall, and we could feel his heart pounding against us.  “Tha gaol agam ort, bidh mi an-còmhnaidh. Gu bràth agus gu bràth,” we breathed against his ear, and his shoulders trembled.  I love you, I always will. Forever and always.

As he laid us down on the bed, Simon seemed to register for a moment that this was not the body he knew before, but he pressed on in curious reverence, dragging our jeans off of our legs and discarding them onto the floor.

“Let us have it, LT,” Johnny said, our voice thick with desire as we unclasped our bra and threw it somewhere in the room, spilling our naked breasts to his gaze.  “I want ye to fuck us like yer life depends on it.”  

Simon’s breath caught in his throat at our words, eyes darkening as he looked down at us splayed on the bed, hands fumbling with his belt, not moving fast enough.  He shed his pants, his cock straining against his boxers, and came to cover our body with his own.  We basked in the warmth of his skin, the prickly sensation of his chest hairs on our breasts, the satisfying weight of him as he pressed us into the mattress.  Capturing our lips again, he fed at our mouth as if it would keep him alive.  We could feel his erection pressing against our thigh, hard and insistent as he ground against us, and we purred, running our hands up his broad back.

"I’ve been missin’ you, love," he whispered hoarsely, his hands roaming over our body as he kissed us again.  His hands were everywhere — running through our hair, exploring every inch of our body. We could feel his desperation, his need for us overwhelming him, and it was a heady mix of emotions that left us breathless.  

“I know, LT,” we said, “but I’m here with ye now.”  And now was all that mattered.

Simon ran his hand lightly over the front of our panties and paused, looking at us with a questioning gaze, unable to keep the longing out of his eyes.

“Please,” we whispered as we looked up at him.  Just one last time.  Though that part remained unsaid, Simon heard it in our voice.

He hooked his thumbs into our panties, dragging them down our legs slowly, his hands trembling slightly with emotion.  Trailing a finger up our slit, he watched our face as we sighed, and he gathered the wetness there before kissing us again.  Running his tongue along our bottom lip, we opened for him, and he plundered our mouth at the same time that he plunged a finger into our pussy, making us gasp.

We moaned into his mouth as he added a second finger and started to pump them in time with our heartbeat.  Threading our fingers through his short hair, he hummed against our neck, feeling our pulse jump against his tongue as he added a third finger, preparing us to take his cock.

Our body was on fire.  We squirmed beneath him, mewling as his fingers fucked into us, consumed by the intensity of it all.  But it wasn’t what we needed.  “Simon, please,” we gasped, unable to find the words to finish our sentence.

But he knew, just like always.  Withdrawing his fingers, he spread our wetness over our folds and stripped off his underwear, settling between our legs.  Because of the size difference, we found ourselves on our sides, his body curled around us slightly, our leg draped over his hip.  He dragged the tip of his dick up our slit, coating it with our wetness before pushing forward slowly, watching our face as we took him into our slickened cunt.  

Our body stretched wide around him, and we whimpered, our fingernails making half-moons on his tattooed forearm.  He paused, gathering us close to kiss our hair and whisper sweet words into our ear until we finally relaxed enough to take more of him.  And we took every fucking inch.  Once his cock was buried inside of us, he closed his eyes, and we stayed like that for a moment.  We felt impossibly full, not just physically, but our heart felt like it would burst.  He opened his eyes, and we knew from the raw emotion on his face that he felt it, too.  So much love.  

Digging his fingers into the plush of our hip to steady us, he drew back, his shaft sliding out slightly before snapping his hips and thrusting it back in, finding a slow, firm rhythm that had us moaning as we tried — and failed — not to melt.

“Sweet bloody Jesus, LT,” we said, looping our arms around his neck.

“Praying again, Johnny?” Simon murmured, a small smile touching his lips.

“Someone has to, ye bastart.”

He kissed us, increasing his pace, fucking into us harder.  Reaching down between us, he drew circles around our clit with a gentle insistence that had our toes curling.  “Come for me, love,” he said in a low rumble that did things to us, and we could feel our pleasure building, coiling like a spring deep within us.

With every thrust, we thought, I want to stay. I want to stay. I want to stay.  But we knew we couldn't.  So we let him drink us in through his skin, and we left our imprint there, another scar among many.  It hurt to feel this good, and we closed our eyes.  We wanted him, wanted to keep him forever, but we don’t have that.  It's not fair.  He was ours, and now he has to face this alone.  We didn't want to leave him.  

“Look at me,” Simon commanded softly.  “Let me see you.”

Our eyelids fluttered open again.  One look into the dark pools of his eyes, and we were drowning, and this great and terrible love broke us, and we were undone.  The orgasm that coiled deep in our belly ripped through us, and we cried out as our pussy tightened around him.  He groaned, the sound vibrating against us as he plunged his cock deep inside one final time before spilling himself into us.

We panted together, our breaths mingling as he rested his sweaty forehead against ours and finally closed his eyes.  As our heartbeats slowed, we looked up at him, a bittersweet expression on our face.

“I love ye, Simon Riley,” Johnny said softly.  We gently caressed his face with our hands. “Always will.  Don't be an arse, and take care of yerself.  Stay alive.  I'll see ye again in the end.”  

“Johnny,” Simon said as his eyes shot open, a flash of panic moving through them as he pulled his face back.  He knew it was time to say goodbye.  “Johnny,” he said again.  I could tell he wanted to say don’t go, but you can’t stop death; Simon knew that better than anyone.  “I love you,” he said, his voice breaking as he smoothed the hair out of our face.

Johnny looked up at him through my eyes and kissed him with everything he had left. When Simon pulled back, my connection with Johnny had been severed, leaving only me behind.  

I cried out in sudden pain, the psychic wound in my soul raging and raw, feeling the empty void where Johnny had been so loud and strong only seconds before.  Tears filled my eyes and poured down my cheeks as if they would never stop.

“What is it?” Simon asked with alarm, freezing above me.

“He’s gone!” I wailed, and it was like I was split open by grief, feeling Johnny’s loss so strongly despite never knowing him in life.  Being deprived of his presence, his essence, his warmth inside me left me bereft in a way I didn’t even think was possible, and I was powerless against this onslaught of feelings.  How could I feel like this when Simon, who knew and loved Johnny, was here with the pain of time and experience?

Simon stared down at my face, his expression contorted by the anguish of this second loss.  I could feel his pain like a second skin, its heavy weight oppressive and harsh.  Tears filled his eyes, and he buried his face in the crook of my neck, his arms coming tighter around me, and we wept together, trying to coax comfort out of each other as the world broke apart around us.

Only then did I realize that the final card in my initial reading, the Three of Swords, represented the three of us sharing our grief with hearts still freshly broken—three people, one heart, and a love that bleeds.

“No,” I said.

He blinked. “‘No?’”

“No,” I repeated, my eyes a little too wide. 

“Ye haven’t even heard what I want from ye.”  John looked annoyed, his brows drawing down in a frown that lined his face. It made him look maybe just a little bit intimidating.  Having issues with displeasing someone, who me?

“Don’t want to.  Can’t.”  I shook my head for extra emphasis as if I needed it.  “Mm-mm.”

“Are ye always so childish?” 

Oof, right in the feelings.  “You want me to talk to someone, don’t you?” I accused, my finger jabbing the air at him.  

“How—?”

“Knight of Swords.  Air.  Communication,” I explained as if this were common knowledge and a perfectly logical conclusion to reach.  “You just have that very chatty air about you, and I dunno, man, I’m not about that life.  I have social anxiety.  I don’t play well with strangers because I’m too busy having a heart attack around them.  It’s just not a strength that I have.”

John looked momentarily apologetic before despair swallowed the expression.  This gave me pause.  Fuck me and my Catholic guilt.  “Fine!  Okay, alright, I’ll hear you out, but I can’t promise you anything.”  I sat down on the edge of the bed, just trying to quell the anxious jitters making my fingers shake, The Knight of Swords card dancing slightly in my grasp.  I placed it back with the other two in the reading and looked up at my ghostly kinsman.

John’s examining gaze was concerned as he stood across from me.  “Ye alright, lass?”

Reminding myself to take a deep breath, I simply nodded.

A single confirmation nod from John was all he gave before launching into his story.  “I was a soldier in life.  SAS.  British special forces.  We were on a mission a few months ago, chasin’ a Russian terrorist in the London tunnels.  Makarov.”  His eyes blazed as the memories washed through him, spitting his enemy’s name as if it were poison.  “We had ‘im too.  But the fucker was slippery.  My captain and I got shot while we were diffusin’ a bomb.”  John’s hand went to his shoulder as if to soothe the phantom wound.  “Makarov was about to finish ‘im off – my captain, I mean – but I managed to get up and clap the bastard, only… I ended up gettin’ shot in the head.  Killed instantly.  Then Makarov buggered off.”

I listened intently to John’s story, my heart squeezing in my chest for him.  “I’m so sorry, John.  I… don’t know what else to say.  You were really brave.”

He smirked.  “A lot of good it did me.  Still, Captain Price is alive, and I dunnae regret that.”  His eyes seemed focused on something far away, and I waited for him to continue.

When he didn’t, I had to prompt him.  “John?  What is it that you want from me?”

His eyes refocused on me, his mouth set in a grim line.  “I need yer help, Evangeline….  My boyfriend was there that day.  One of my teammates.  He’s not doin’ well.”

Shit.  I blew out a long breath as if I was trying to exorcise my demons.  “I’m so sorry,” I repeated uselessly.  “John, I’m… probably the last person you want to go and talk to your boyfriend about your death or literally anything else.  I suck at this kind of thing.  I never know what to say to grieving people, even if I’ve known them forever.  Words just aren’t enough.”

“Please,” he said, kneeling by the bed, his ghostly hand passing through mine as it lay on my lap, chilling me.  “You’re all I have, lass.”

Despite the urgency in his voice, I was hesitant for reasons that should have been obvious.  I stared down at the three cards on the bed once again, reinterpreting the reading as The Knight of Swords representing John, the Death card — for the first time in one of my readings — representing his literal death, and the Three of Swords representing his boyfriend’s subsequent heartbreak.  There are always multiple ways to interpret the cards in every situation; you just have to move through it and see what fits—a little like grief.

I looked back at him with an expression of resignation on my face.  “You’re lucky I like you.”

His face lit up.  “So you’ll do it?”

I sighed, coming to terms with the decision I was about to make.  “Yeah.  I’ll do it.”

“Sorry I called ye childish,” he said apologetically.

“Mm.”

“Yer beau’iful,” he tried again.

I gave him a grin.  “Aww, how kind of you to say.”

“Yes, I am kind. Now you compliment me.”

“Why should I when you just did it yourself?”

He chuckled before his expression sobered.  “Thank you, Evangeline. I cannae repay the favor you’re doin’ me.”

I looked back at him, noting how similar our eyes were.  “You can owe me in the next life, how’s that?”

“Sounds like a fair deal.  So, are ye gonna clean up this mess?”

“Sorry, you’ll have to clean yourself up.”

“Funny.”

I leaned down and started to gather my fallen tarot cards, picking out carpet lint and hairs occasionally as I stacked the deck.

”Y’know…,” he began, “ye make me wish I could’ve met you while I was livin’.  Think we coulda been friends?”

Deck neatly in hand, I looked up at him, a warm, bittersweet feeling blossoming inside my chest.  “Yeah, I think we could’ve been.  Could still be.”

He laughed.  “Well, bein’ friends with me is a blessing in itself.”

“I’m sure it is.”

We headed out by taxi to John’s old flat to see his boyfriend, Simon.  Simon Riley.  I turned the name over in my mind as we drove, wondering what kind of man he was.  It was odd traveling in a car with a complete stranger, knowing that you have a ghost with you.  I kept looking at the driver in the rearview mirror, paranoid that he’d be able to see John, but aside from my own awkwardness, the trip concluded uneventfully.

I stared at the door that I was supposed to be knocking on and felt immediately threatened, that familiar fight-or-flight feeling making my extremities tingle.  “Shit.  John, I can’t…”

“Easy.  I’ll be right here; I won’t leave ye.  But we have to get in and get to Simon, alright?  The eejit’s blootered.”

I stared at him in confusion.  “He’s what?”

John rolled his eyes, exasperated.  “Drinkin’, hen.  He’s right sloshed.  Now get knockin’.”

Stepping toward the door, I looked at John and said, “I feel like your Scottish level just increased.”  I wrapped my knuckles on the door before I lost my nerve and stepped back.

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes.  “I think yer just too American to understand—“

The door flew open, revealing the personification of my Death card: an enormous man wearing a skull balaclava, no shirt, about one billion muscles, and an appropriately sized scowl.  His displeasure was evident despite the mask covering his features.  It radiated off of him in waves like heat, like the smell of alcohol that invaded my nostrils as it drifted out from him.  Piercing dark eyes stared down at me briefly before squinting, and then he slammed the door in my face.  I could hear his heavy footfalls retreating further into the flat.  I looked at John, at a complete loss, and maybe with a bit of anxiety.  Just a wee bit.

He sighed.  “Knock again, Evangeline.  He’ll answer.”  

“Why do you not look convinced?”

“Because I’m not.”

“I appreciate your honesty.  Is he gonna kill me?” I asked, somehow finding the nerve to knock again through my blooming dissociation.  It was a genuine fear.  What do I actually know about these guys?  Not much.  John hadn’t told me anything about Simon besides that they were both in the military.  He most certainly didn’t tell me about how absofuckinglutely intimidating his man was; he looked like he could just break me in half with those dark brooding eyeballs of his, no hands necessary.  My heart lurched, palpitating in my chest wildly like a canary in a proverbial coal mine.

“He won’t kill ye,” John assured me and my anxiety.

Ten beats passed. Nothing.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” John said in frustration and then disappeared through the wall of the flat.  I could hear him swearing and yelling, all in vain.  He emerged, raking a hand through his mohawk in irritation.  When his eyes finally locked with mine, a silent plea filled them.

I didn’t like that look on John’s face; the pain and concern etched there was almost a tangible thing, and it hurt.  It made me feel edgy and a bit unstable, as if the ground beneath me wasn’t as sturdy as I believed before coming out here.  I stepped up and knocked again, louder, more insistent.  For him.

This time, I could hear the lumbering stomps of Simon’s gait as he approached the door to the flat, and I braced myself for whatever might come.  My hair sucked forward from the sudden vacuum the door caused, and I nearly expected the door to be ripped from its hinges, such was the velocity at which the door opened.  I hadn’t stepped back, but Jesus, I wished that I had.

“The fuck do you want?”  Simon’s voice was a low growl, his thick British accent raking across me like a physical attack.

There was that small animal voice in the back of my head as I looked up at the angry behemoth at the door, which said, with zero doubt, “You are going to die.”  He braced a forearm on the doorframe, leaning in closer.  My eyes widened fractionally with every millimeter that decreased between us.  Shit.

“Um… A-are you Simon?  Simon Riley?”

He blinked at me with unfocused eyes.  He’d been drinking heavily as he reeked of alcohol, which was wonderful for me because we all know that drunk people are totally predictable.  “Who’s askin’?”

My eyes flicked to John, who stood beside the door, nodding encouragingly.  “M-my name is Evangeline.  I’m here about John—"

“Johnny,” John — or Johnny — corrected me.

“Johnny?”  I glanced at my ghostly companion, who nodded.

Simon narrowed his eyes.  “The fuck you on about?”

“Look, I know this will sound crazy, but he sent me here with a message.”  This was a bit of a stretch since, now that I thought about it, Johnny didn’t actually give me a message for Simon.

“So, what, you’re a bloody fortune teller?” Simon asked, his gravelly voice seething with bitter outrage.

Shit shit shit shit shit.  “No, that’s not—“ I started, taking a defensive step backward, but he barreled on.

“What the fuck do you want here?”

“Johnny wanted me to—“ 

I had little time to react before he picked me up by my jacket lapels and slammed me against his door, the air quickly evicted from my lungs.  The back of my head stung as I looked in horror at him.

“Johnny doesn’t want anything.  He’s fucking dead.”

I froze under his gaze, which was both hateful and wounded, the cold rush of adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream.

Johnny interjected in a panic, “The first thing I ever said to him was,  ‘Let’s get ourselves a win.’ Tell him!”

I could feel my throat starting to close up.  I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe.

“Shit.”  Johnny rushed forward, moving through Simon, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but it was useless.  Next, he passed through me, my body feeling the chill of his presence, a strange, otherworldly shiver as suddenly, my mouth moved.

“LT, let ‘er go.”  The voice was mine, but the speaker was Johnny, his Scottish inflection clear in my voice.

Part 3

He looks at the children now, three in total: the oldest stands with the hopeful air of authority that only a young boy of about eight can have. The girl—most likely his sister, given the same brown eyes and black curly hair—stands half-hidden behind him. The third child stands off to the side, his fiery red hair about ten times as loud as the child himself.

The oldest one speaks first. "This here is our treehouse. What do you fink you're doin' here, eh?"

"Roddy!" the girl hisses around his side. "That ain't proper! He's hurt!"

The boy — Roddy — glares at his sister. "I told you, call me Snake!" Turning toward Gaz as if nothing happened, Roddy — or Snake — says, "You can call me Snake.” He points to the headband on his brow, which trails in twin tails behind him, much like a certain video game character. “This here is my sister Larry—"

"Alaria!"

"Quiet, you."

"I'm tellin' Mum!"

Snake looked ashen for a second before clearing his throat and refocusing on Gaz. "Like I said, this here is our treehouse. Who are you an' what're you doin' here?"

"My name is… Kyle Garrick, and I—" He pauses.  As Gaz tries to retrieve the information of how he got here and what he was even doing before this, all he can see is tv static, an empty void where his memory should be. "I... don't remember how I got here," he admits.

"Oh, you poor fing!" Alaria coos, finally coming out from behind her brother. "Bet you got your mem’ries lost from that nasty bump on your 'ead."

"Bump...?" Gaz reaches back, and sure enough, there is quite the sizeable knot on the back of his head, and he hisses, pulling his hand away with just a little blood and some wood chips from the tree branch.

"Head wounds always bleed more," Snake says, trying to quell the queasy look on his sister's face. 

Gaz suppresses a smile. So the kid actually does have a heart, after all.

Rummaging through her sequined unicorn purse, Alaria pulls out a long bandage that looks like it has seen its share of warfare usage – if the war in question involves glitter bombs. "Mr. Cuddles ain't usin' this right now, so I reckon we should patch you up." She begins to wrap Gaz's head wound awkwardly. He doesn't have the heart to tell her how to dress it properly since she seems so concerned about his wellbeing. Once she finishes, Gaz feels a bit like The Mummy, but Alaria looks so happy he can't help but smile.

"Thanks, I owe you one," he tells her, and the girl practically vibrates with joy.

"Right, Kyle,” Snake says. “Sounds like you've got amnesia, bruv."

Gaz cocks an eyebrow. "Thank you for your quick diagnosis, Doctor Snake."

"Ain't nothin'," the boy replies with an overly unconcerned sniff. "Right, lads—"

"Don't call me 'lad,' I'm not a boy!" Alaria complains.

"Oi, focus, yeah? This man's lost his mem’ry; I bet he don' even know where he's at, and you want to complain about something like that? Come on, Larry."

She scowls but seems to acquiesce.

"First thing's first, then, we gotta find out where you came from before this. Me mate, Dave always says that retracin' your steps can help you remember. Like when you go into a room an' forget why you came in there."

Gaz looks at the redheaded boy who stands watching the scene unfold. "Is that Dave?"

“Wot?” Snake looks over his shoulder and wrinkles his nose. "Nah, that's Collin," he says dismissively, giving Gaz a look that says he thinks he's a little slow on the uptake.

Gaz blinks politely, redirecting with, "Alright, Collin?"

The boy nods silently in greeting.

"Can you stand up, Kyle?" Alaria asks, taking on a nursemaid demeanor, which Gaz has to imagine she uses on her stuffed bears at home.

"I think so." Carefully, Gaz stands up, brushing the dirt and leaves from the front of his shirt and jacket.

"Oi, hang on!" Snake says, staring intently at Gaz's leg. "You got them sticky burrs on your jeans."

Gaz looks down and pulls off a few of the dark seed pods that cling when you walk past them.  “Alright, and?”

"I know a place nearby where they grow," he says. "We always avoid that area 'cause they're awful to get out of our clothes once we're up here. But we can take you frew, see if that jogs your mem’ry."

He looks at the boy with an impressed half-smile. "Sounds like a plan.  Good eye, Snake."

Snake swells with genuine pride at the praise.  "Right, lads, let's move out!"  With no objections this time, the four of them start the trek away from the treehouse and through the woods.

"So you really don't remember what you were doin' before?" Alaria asks as she walks by Gaz's side.

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. It's all a bit hazy, though I can remember who I am and what I do for work."

"What do you do for work then?" Snake asks.

"Military," Gaz says simply, watching veritable stars form in the boy's eyes.

"Wicked," he breathes with excitement. "Me mate, Dave, his mum works for the army as a nurse. I want to join when I'm old enough."

Gaz looks down at Snake, seeing in the boy the younger version of himself, wanting so badly to follow in his father's footsteps, to protect people. He swallows, thinking of the pain and sacrifices he's endured over the many years of his career, the boy's shining, starstruck eyes feeling like an even heavier weight because it's this innocence that he fights so hard to protect every day.

After a moment, Gaz shakes off his reverie and says, "Just remember always to keep your head and look out for your people. They're who you're fighting for, yeah?"

Snake nods solemnly as if he's committing this to memory; he may very well be.

"Oh, nooo!" Alaria whines. "They're all over me now." Sure enough, her leggings are sprinkled with burrs.

"Guess we're in the right place," Gaz says, looking around.

"Anyfing look familiar?" Snake asks.

Looking around the area again, Gaz tries to recall some image from the static in his brain. After a few moments, he sighs, shaking his head in frustration. "Nothing," he says.

"You know, on the telly, sometimes you get your mem’ry back if you get scared real bad," Alaria says hopefully.

"That's hiccups, Larry," Snake sighs with an eye roll.

"Oh."

"What you're finkin' of is when you get clobbered in the 'ead again."

Alaria gasps, stomping in front of Gaz, much to his amusement. "You ain't gonna touch 'im, you hear me, Roddy!? He already got a bump on his 'ead! He's been frew enough!"

"It's alright, love," Gaz says through a smile. "No one's getting clobbered."

"Tha's what I was gonna say," Snake huffs. "Honestly." Shaking his head, Snake looks over at Collin, who's been wandering around the brush with purpose. The boy bends over and picks something up.

"Oi, whachu got there, Collin?"

Collin holds up what he found: a grey baseball cap with a monochrome Union Jack patch embroidered on the front.

Gaz knows it instantly, moving toward Collin’s location. "That's... that's mine."

Retrieving it gratefully, Gaz says, "Thanks, mate." There's a small patch of blood on the back, which makes him sigh. "Blood stains are so hard to clean out."

"Me mate, Dave's mum says to use hydrogen peroxide," Snake offers.

"Ah. The army nurse, yeah?"

"No, she’s just a mum," Snake says, as if Gaz should already know this information.

Gaz stares for a moment, confused, but decides it’s best just to move on rather than argue with a surly child.  He curls the hat by the brim and shoves it into his back pocket. No sense in trying to fit it over all the bandages and blood.

"Awright, lads, we know he came frew here. The question is: where do we go next?" Snake looks amongst his squad's faces for ideas, but none are forthcoming.

After a moment, Alaria suggests, “We could go to the playground.”

"Oi, why would a grown man be at the playground, Larry?"

She scowls. "I dunno, maybe he has a kid or somefing!"

"No kids," Gaz mutters absently as he kneels, his eyes scanning the ground where his hat was found. He'll have to pick off all the burrs later.

"Have you got your phone on you?" asked Alaria.

"My phone?" Hands going to pockets automatically, Gaz looks for that familiar rectangle, but instead, he feels nothing. "No. Don't know where that could've gotten off to."  

After a few more minutes of searching, Gaz lets out a growl of frustration. "I can't bloody remember a thing!"  He stands up and drags a hand over his face, biting back the string of expletives just aching to come out. If only he weren't surrounded by children.

"Maybe we should call the police," says Alaria quietly. "I think he needs a doctor."

Snake grimaces. "We ain't got no phone, remember?"

"We can just go home!"

"And let mum see us wif a complete stranger??  Are you mental?  We'll get grounded for a week and a half!"

"He ain't a stranger, he's Kyle Garrick!  Besides, she'll understand when she sees 'im!"

"You're so stupid, Larry!  You fink that Mum won't tell us we can't go to the treehouse anymore?  A grown man got attacked where we play, and you fink that she'll still let us go out an' play wifout her?  Absolutely mad."

As Alaria starts to cry, it's clear that things have just crossed a line. Snake, the acting leader of this little group, stands off to the side with his arms crossed, leaving Collin and Gaz exchanging awkward glances.

"That's enough," Gaz says finally, earning a guilty-looking scowl from Snake. "It's alright, love,” he says, putting a gentle hand on Alaria’s shoulder.  “Brothers sometimes say things they don't mean.  Try not to think too badly of him, yeah?" He catches a tear with a knuckle and earns a small smile in return.

Collin, who had been standing and observing as he apparently tended to do, is now suddenly standing right next to them. It’s honestly a little unnerving how quietly he moves. 

"You smell like strawberries," the boy says enigmatically.

"Oi, what's he on about?" Snake asks from across the patch of woods.

Gaz looks over at Snake, repeating the other boy's statement. "Your mate Collin says I smell like strawberries."

Alaria leans in and sniffs. "You do."

"Alright, and...?"

"Hang on, lads. Didn't the Tesco have a special strawberry slush on this week?" Snake asks, coming to join the group.

"Strawberry's the best," Collin says.

"Aww, I wanted Mum to get us slushes," says Alaria wistfully.

Snake nudges Gaz's jacket open, squinting at his dark shirt. Suddenly, he grins. "Looks like you had a spill, mate. There."

Gaz looks down, and sure enough, there's the faint outline of a red stain which has the distinct smell of strawberries. He looks at Collin with respect. "Good nose, mate." It's hard to tell, but the boy gives an imperceptible smile. 

"Oi, Collin, how much did that strawberry slush cost?"

"Wot?" the boy answers.

"The price!  How much for the strawberry slush?"

”Price…,” Gaz mumbles, his mind spinning.

"Oh. Three quid."

"Hang on, I think I remembered something," Gaz says as if he can't believe it.

"Well, what is it?" Alaria asks, practically bouncing.

"I remembered Price.  Captain Price."

"Was he wif you at the market?"

Gaz grimaces. "I can't remember."

Snake raises his eyebrows. "Looks like you're startin' to wake up."

Chuckling, Gaz nods. "Looks that way."

"Let's go to Tesco!" Alaria says excitedly, raising her fist in the air.

It takes about five minutes to get out of the woods and into the main commercial area via a residential road, and Gaz couldn't be happier to see civilization again. The kids are fine, but he was starting to think he was stuck in some kind of Lord of the Flies alternate universe.

They approach the Tesco with Snake leading the way. "Awright, let's look inside, lads."

"Wait, we should take him to the counter, like what happens when you run off—"

"Yeah, yeah, enough." Snake scowls, covering his sister's mouth with his hand.

Collin snickers quietly.

"It's not a bad idea," Snake finally admits as he releases her.

"Agreed," Gaz says. "Good thinking, Alaria."

The group heads over to the customer service area, where all parents go to collect or report their wayward children. There, they see a rather miffed older gentleman with mutton chops.

"No, he's not a child—,” the man says to the customer service rep. “Look, I assure you, this is quite serious."

"Captain?" Gaz couldn't believe it. Of all the places, how could this actually be the right one?

The captain's head swivels around to face the group, the tension melting away on sight. "Gaz!" The tall man strides over to them with purpose.

"Is that your husband?" Alaria whispers.

Gaz nearly chokes on air. "Wha— No! That's my commanding officer."

"There's no shame in it,” Snake says. “Me mate, Dave's got two mums."

"I'm not ashamed, I'm just— no, you know what? Just no."

The kids giggle as Price closes in, taking Gaz by the shoulders and scrutinizing him for injuries. The man frowns. "You broken?"

"I'm good."

Price smiles. "Good lad."

After all is said and done, the mystery is finally revealed.  As it turns out, Tesco was besieged by an overzealous strawberry slush thief just as Price and Gaz were about to check out.  As Gaz tried to restrain the thief, the slush spilled onto his shirt, but the criminal broke free of his hold.  Gaz pursued him through the woods but was ambushed with a very hard blow to the head, where he fell unconscious and suffered short-term memory loss.

Now, as they all enjoy some fresh strawberry slushes to celebrate a job well done, Gaz turns to Snake.  "Listen.  A man's mind is his greatest asset. Keep your head on, yeah?"

“Yes, sir,” Snake says, his little chest puffing out with pride.

That’s how, months later (had to wait for my passport), I found myself at the Brittania Hotel in Manchester, in one of their “standard twin rooms without a window.”  I never really knew how much I liked windows until I didn’t have one, but that’s beside the point.  At least I got a private bathroom, a coffee maker, and a TV, so I can’t complain too much for $44 per night.  Besides, this entire trip was an exercise in insanity, so why not add in some sensory deprivation while we’re at it?

As soon as I stood on UK soil, I knew this was the right place; that intuitive nudge felt like a soothing affirmation.  And that’s a great thing because simply being up in the air triggered another migraine, and I was afraid I’d puke on the guy next to me.  After unpacking my bag in the hotel room, I flipped a card from my tarot deck: The Knight of Swords.

The Knight of Swords talks about action, as all Knight cards do.  There’s a sense of motion, movement, and moving forward inherent there, with The Knight of Swords having the connotation of almost overwhelmingly swift movement; in fact, you can interpret it as needing to take heed that you’re not leaping before you’re looking.  (What irony.)  But that’s only one part of the story as the suit of the card will tell you what’s moving.  Swords in the tarot represent the element of air, so all things related to logic, ideas, communication, words, writing, and thoughts.  Holistically, you can interpret The Knight of Swords as needing to make sure you check your words before you say things so that you become aware of any potential obstacles on this path that you’re charging down. But, ultimately, you have the clarity of mind to overcome any challenges.  Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

However, the court cards in tarot can also signify people: kings as men or masculine energy, queens as women or feminine energy, and pages as children or youthful energy.  Knights, though, are tricky.  They can symbolize people of any gender, anywhere from age twenty-five up to forty, people who move in and out of our lives, physical travel, change, or pure energy and where you’re focusing it.  It can be hard to know what the “correct” interpretation is in any given reading, with so many meanings to consider, but I usually just go with my gut or pull some more cards for context.  In this case, why not both?

Pulling two more cards from the deck, I laid them out on the bed next to the first one: Death and the Three of Swords.  Contrary to popular belief, the Death card doesn’t usually mean death or foretell of someone dying.  It means change and transformation, the end of a cycle and the beginning of a new one.  The Three of Swords features an illustration with three swords stabbing through a bleeding heart: heartbreak, but sometimes literal heart health problems.

"Wow, bad day," I said as I looked over the cards.

I suddenly felt a presence in the room that wasn’t there a minute ago, the hairs on the back of my neck and my arms standing on end.

"Ye finally made it, lass."

My head whirled around so fast that the ends of my bobbed hair stabbed me in the eye.  I shot to my feet, spilling the rest of my cards to the floor.  “Fuck!” I whined, cradling my stinging, watering eye as I stumbled backward. 

Deep, apparently very amused laughter rang out in the room, and I was astonished to see a man there, wearing some kind of military getup, a mohawk cut into his dark brown hair. Oh, and he was semi-transparent.

I backed away slowly, my hand clapped over my eye.  There is no way in Hell.  “What the fuck, are you a ghost?” 

His expression sobered as he nodded his spectral head.  “Unfortunately.”  

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice a couple of octaves higher than it would typically be.  The urge to scream was overwhelming, and he put his hands out placatingly. 

”Easy, love,” he cooed, keeping his voice as soothing as possible so as not to spook me further.  “We have a blood tie.”

“What?”  The man — ghost? ghost man? — could tell me he was king of Scotland, and I don’t think that would change my hesitation or the level of existential panic I felt at that moment.

“We’re kin,” he said with a little more force, trying to reach me through my brain-melting anxiety.  “Family.  Somewhere along the line, we share blood.  Is it so hard to imagine?  Big world like this?”

“I’m literally talking to a dead man,” I say as my inner thoughts bleed out of my mouth.  Either my imagination is amazing, or I’m having a breakdown.  Maybe there really was something wrong with my brain, and they just couldn’t find it.  Maybe the migraines were making me hallucinate.

“Evangeline!” 

That caught my attention, my blue eyes snapping to his in shocked confusion.  “How do you know my name?”

He had the audacity to sound frustrated.  “Like I said, we share a blood tie.”

"Oh, of course.  That obviously explains everything.  I’m so relieved."

He smirked.  “Yer a wisearse ye are.”

Well, he did get one thing right anyway.  “How come I don’t know your name then?”

”Because I’m dead, and ye’re not.  It’s John, by the way.  John MacTavish.”

Examining him warily, I ask, “So we’re, like, cousins or some shit, John MacTavish?”

He shrugged, pushing his long sleeves up his forearms, which is such a mind-boggling thing to think about a ghost doing — like, what’s the purpose of that? Is he too warm?  “I dunnae know exactly, lass; I just know that I was pulled to ye.  And ye answered.”  It was then that I noticed the ghostly blood on the side of his head, his presumably fatal bullet wound in the exact place where I felt my migraines.

My stomach dropped into what felt like a vat of ice.  “Oh… Oh no. I’m not a medium!  I don’t see dead people!” I desperately pleaded with him, trying to convince him he'd gotten the wrong girl. “I just sling cards; I don’t do any of that other stuff!”

”And yet, here I am.  Here ye are.”  He put his hand on his hip.

“Yes, but… Why?  Why are you here?  What do you want from me?”  Then I saw his tattoo.  With a sudden motion, I moved quickly forward — I think I actually startled him — and I bent my head down to look at his forearm.  Nested inside of laurels was a sword with wings, topped by a knight’s helm and crown.

”Knight of Swords,” I breathed, astonished.  Rushing back, I grab my card from the bed, brandishing it as I return to where he stands.  “This is you?  You did this?”

The ghost of John MacTavish looked down at me with a serious expression.  “I did.  I need yer help, Evangeline.  Yer the only one who can do it.”

Part 2