Crescent - Chapter 1

She slipped her leg into the bathtub, shuddering as the heat invaded her heel. The bubbles sank up to her nose, slowly fading to a pinkish red as her body was slowly cleansed. There was a tiny portable radio on the windowsill next to the bath, with which Dara fiddled with before settling on a lo-fi channel that resonated throughout the narrow room. She fought not to close her eyes, the water growing cooler around her.

A pair of Hello Kitty sweatpants adorned the closed toilet seat; she pulled them over her ankles before stretching a black tank top over her head and removing the plug out of the tub. The cold metal of the door handle met her hand before she swung it open, sniffing, and exiting towards her room. In the bathroom, the music continued, as though it was being warped into the drainpipe. Her hair dripped onto the carpet.

Espen was stood at the end of the hallway, creepy as ever, hair entwined with the stems of statice flowers and fairy lights.

It was fitting that he was, in fact, a ghost.

As she did on her 'off' nights, Dara ignored the odd specimen that was floating in her doorway, feeling a rush of warmth as she passed through Spen's body, entering the bedroom and lying flat against the bed.

'Sometimes, you can be a total tispe, Dee,' Espen growled as Dara continued to stare at the ceiling, 'are you ignoring me? Dritt, you are so petty sometimes!'
'Spen, I just want to sleep, my head hurts an-'
She was cut off by a small hiss that had escaped Espen's lips, a signal of annoyance.

It was quiet: the TV hung at the end of her bed was softly illuminating the room with an episode of 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia', an episode she believed was in season 10.

Her mind drifted to 2015, when she suffered her first bout of drug withdrawal, during which she locked herself inside a Premier Inn room with Netflix on her laptop to completely 'detox'. Those 4 days were filled with scrappily made cinnamon-banana pancakes, spasms that seemed to wrack her entire body, Danny DeVito and a ramming pain in her skull that could only be alleviated with Oxycodone. She had gotten through a few seasons of the show down though; every night, she would stare blankly at the screen as the pretend people ram around their pretend lives, and she'd look inside with her darkened eye sockets, teamed with a runny nose. It comforted her, and even as the characters she loved became downright hateable, she felt warmth in her chest that she refused to believe was hope.

She rolled over to ignore the disappointment in Spen's eyes. Once again she exhaled loudly and sunk slowly beneath the blankets, feeling the weight of her skull disperse against the pillows. Dara closed her eyes on the navy walls of her bedroom, her mind filled with connections to the past; it lapped her in at first, but then her thoughts grew loud and boisterous and she sank lower and lower, her brain floating above the rooftops and into sleep.

Espen hadn't left, and watched her for a little while. She looked pale, her spindly fingers tangled in the layers of thick blankets and her hair an oil spill against the white of the bedspread. Sometimes Dara was odd: she would ignore him, protest at any attempt of conversation, even to go as far as to lock herself in the bathroom for hours, only emerging to make a shoddy PB&J and drink a glass of milk.

Sometimes he wanted to touch her. Not even in a remotely sexual way: he wanted her to feel loved and soft and appreciated, things she never felt as a person shunned by society. He thought Dara was stupid for running away: to him she could be a selfish little narcissist, prone to sadness. But still, as he watched her sleeping form, he felt sorry for her. Spen, silent, faded away to allow Dara to rest unmaintained.

In her slumber, she relaxed.

The morning came a little too fast for Dara's liking. She could feel the sun against her eyes before they were even open. Without even waking fully, she had groped along her nightstand to find her rose-tinted glasses; they were cold against her fingers, and she winced as they were enclosed in her palm. The TV still ran quietly in the corner, the gentle thrum of Charlie Day causing her to bite her lip and stand to turn off the TV. Shutting the door behind her, she vacated the bedroom, walking down to the kitchen in her matted bunny slippers and wondering where she'd left her phone.

And there was Espen, cold as the day he had died, his lips poised in apology.
'What I said was uncalled for,' he spoke softly, his voice much quieter than usual screeching that he could resort to whilst conversating with Dara. She had already lit up a cigarette and had it pressed between her lips. 'Can you make pancakes?'
'Sure,' she murmured, reaching around for ingredients, 'Sorry for being weird. I was having an off day. Feeling a bit better.'

She took a long drag and focused on the pancakes, the cigarette still dangling from her mouth.
'Don't get ash in them, again.'
'Very helpful, Spen.' Dara guffawed, though she stubbed it out in the ashtray once she had completed the mix.

Months before Espen had asked for pancakes, and Dara had laughed: ghosts literally couldn't eat, so what point did Spen have even requesting them? Apparently he liked the smell, and even though after her Oxycodone stint she couldn't stand the taste of pancakes, Dara didn't have the heart to decline. She'd give them to the homeless dude who sat on the flat corner as she walked to work.

Espen watched as she flipped the burnt pancakes, trying to salvage what was left in the pan. His lips curled upwards at the scent of cinnamon in the air. Dara grimaced, biting her tongue and wrapping the breakfast in tin foil. She poured herself a glass of semi-skim, taking soft sips as Espen nattered about his nephew. Even though Spen and this nephew of his had never met, he always felt a tight connection to the family that he had left behind when he had died. Olav, the nephew he was currently fixated on, had just performed in his first gig, and Spen was ever the proud uncle.

Dara half listened. Espen's voice drowned out all the other ghost's clamours and cries, though she had become rather invested in the screeches of an oddly well dressed spirit, complaining about some 'stupid idiotiskt husband' and 'debts to helvetet'. She chuckled softly as the woman, hair woven with marsh marigolds, began to strut between the table and counter, before phasing through a wall and disappearing completely.

Espen had a disgruntled look on his face, though continued to ramble regardless.
Dara sniffed, placing her glass on the worktop and grinning.
'Anything fun planned today, Spen?'