*
19th May 2000
Matt leant against the rough bark of an elm tree and stared out from under it's low hanging branches. Dawn had not long hit and the world was cast in weak, grey light; only the edges of the trees, the glinting metal of recently washed cars and suburban rooftops that were tinted a pale gold showed any sign that there was a clear, bright day ahead.
Bird's began to wake. People bustled about in their houses, getting ready for work, yelling at kids to be ready for school, eating breakfast, making calls...all normal family things. A kid of about thirteen years old rode past on a dark blue BMX, a bag of newspapers slung over one shoulder. He didn't look up at Matt. The kid couldn't see him anyway. He rode on.
Time passed slowly. Matt waited. He'd been here hours, just thinking. He wasn't hungry or thirsty; he didn't need food or water; if it rained or blew a blizzard or a tornado hit right there and then, it wouldn't make any difference. He could feel it, sure, but it's not like he'd get sick or wet or physically hurt. He'd just fade away, think of somewhere else he wanted to be and he'd be there.
Well...his spirit would be there.
He didn't have a body - his body was six feet under in a cemetery a few miles from his old home. He knew that; he'd been to visit. But his spirit - or whatever you want to call it - could do as he pleased. As long as it didn't involve talking to anyone...or touching anyone...or, in fact, doing any normal, human things, things he'd taken for granted every second he was alive.
Being dead sucked.
Being dead and trapped with the living sucked even more.
He'd never believed all that stuff about Heaven and Hell, not really. Not like his mom taught them, anyway. She always said Heaven was a kind of paradise where people went when they died, where they weren't sad or angry and you were never too cold or too hot and or hungry or anything. She always made it sound like some kind of endless holiday, where you could bask by an oasis all day and drink multicoloured fruit juice, the sort that would have cocktail cherries and paper umbrellas in. There would be huge feasts and parties where all your friends came and you could stay up really late because it was never a school night in Heaven.
Hell, on the other hand, was an underground world full of fire and nasty fanged people, ruled by a big red guy with horns. People were always too hot, always starving, always in pain. People were tortured in Hell. Bad people went to Hell. People who hurt other people and were really mean to their sisters.
He'd believed it until he was about seven.
After that, he wasn't sure what to believe. For one thing, their Grandma Harris died when he was seven and she had been really mean - she wasn't nice and smiley like Grandmas were in books and she would tell him off for everything - and their mother had said that Grandma Harris had gone to Heaven, which made Matt wonder; if Grandma Harris could go to Heaven then maybe Heaven isn't just for good people and maybe Hell isn't just for bad people. The thought had puzzled him, so he stopped thinking about it.
He understood now.
Heaven wasn't a beautiful paradise full of all your friends. Heaven was life and the ability to live it and share it with others that you love. Hell...well, Hell was what Matt lived in every day. Hell was to exist in a world where every one around you lived and loved, while you drifted, unseen and unheard, broken and invisible, without ever being able to escape. Matt pushed away from the trunk of the big elm tree, his eyes focused on the house across the street. The front door he'd been watching for the past five hours opened with a distant creak. A slender figure stepped out, blonde curls tumbling across the shoulder of a smart, duck-egg coloured shirt. A fitted pencil skirt hugged her, skin-tight, down to her knees and she wore a pair of black stilettos that Matt knew would make people want to fall at her feet and grovel.
She had a jacket and handbag in one hand, whilst she rummaged through the contents of the bag with the other.
Matt watched her pull out a large set of keys and lock the front door. Then she slid the jacket on and looked up, straight at him. Matt froze instinctively, but another second passed and he knew she was looking straight through him. She flicked her long, golden hair and walked away, down the street.
Matt slowly crossed the street and followed behind her by just a few steps. Any closer and he knew she might feel him - she might turn her head as if hearing a noise, or maybe pause as though trying to remember something. Then she'd carry on, shaking her head in dismissal. That's what she'd done the first time he'd followed her, and he'd kept a little distance from her since. It hurt to be reminded that she couldn't see him anymore.
But he couldn't stop himself from coming.
Natalie had been his girlfriend and his dominating thought on the day he died. They had dated for four months - not long, but long enough for Matt to be going a little crazy over her. She was the coolest girl he'd ever dated; real smart and sexy and funny too. Everything you could want. And he'd been the biggest asshole to her...
On the day he died, Natalie had called asking if he wanted to meet up that night. He knew he had some stupid concert thing to go to with his family but he could have blown it off for her. His parents would have understood. But all he could think of was how his mate, Tom Alcott, had been goading him, joking how Natalie had put out for her last two boyfriends after just a few weeks and yet she'd hardly even let Matt grope her. He thought things were really good between them and yet, she was always brushing him off, saying goodnight before things got too heavy between them.
So instead of just telling her he was sorry and he had to go to the concert with his parents, he'd been a complete ass over the phone, saying that there wasn't much point to them meeting up when he could have as much fun at this crappy concert than he could with her and that he was sick of taking cold showers all the time.
She'd hung up in tears and he'd immediately felt like an idiot, but was too stubborn to ring back and apologise. He figured he'd call her the next day, come up with some serious apology first. But there wasn't a chance to.
It had all happened so fast; he remembered messing about, tickling Lena, making her laugh. She looked up at him, grinning. Then, in a fraction of a second, her eyes expanded - huge, dark pools full of death and fear. Her face was awash with harsh, bright light, making her appear pale and ghostly. Matt saw it coming, in those milliseconds before impact. Time slowed down, seconds felt like minutes and he saw it all; he saw her face, the reflection of the trucks headlights in her eyes, the way the light bathing her skin was too bright to be normal; he saw her fear and the scream that was forming on her lips, yet to be voiced.
And in that second, he'd jumped for her. For some stupid, unnameable reason, he'd leapt forward as if he could protect her from whatever it was that was coming. He covered her body with his own, let his arms snatch her smaller frame from the seat and tuck her beneath him. He wanted to tell her something, that it was okay, that they were all going to be fine, but before he'd even managed to form the words, he was gone.
The truck slammed into their car, all God-knows-how-many tonnes of steel crumpling inwards and shunting into Matt's back; in the front passenger seat, Eve, their mother, had taken the worst of the impact and was dead before she'd even had chance to turn her head. Matt had followed her, not far behind, and a few minutes later their dad had succumbed to his injuries and passed on too. Lena had lain beneath her brother's body, unconscious and losing blood for nearly and hour while the medics and fire fighters had worked tirelessly to cut her free.
For nearly an hour, Matt screamed. He was no more substantial than a breath of thought in a high wind, his spirit weak and confused and in complete shock. He could see his body, crumpled and utterly broken, mashed up in the wreckage of car and truck. He was watching as the medics and fire-fighters worked, cutting apart the mess of steel, pulling his parents free. He remembered watching, abstractly, as a paramedic took his fathers pulse and shook her head, but he wasn't really there. His spirit was clinging onto the faint but present heartbeat that lay beneath his crushed body, the heartbeat of his little sister. She was still alive. Somehow, she was alive.
