The meaning of Justice

I stand in front of a full sized, grimy mirror in the basement. It had been covered with a sheet long ago, but much of it had slipped so that there was about a foot of glass visible. I stand directly in front of this exposed portion, staring at the reflection of the stone wall behind me. I squint my eyes in concentration. No matter how hard I concentrate and focus, my reflection does not appear. I sigh in frustration and look down at my hands. I flex and curl my fingers, feeling the weightless flesh move in front of me, still unable to see anything but the dirty floor below. I close my eyes, trying to envision what I had looked like when I had a body. It is hard to remember, especially when closing my invisible eyelids does nothing to obscure my vision.
I tip and fall backwards onto the floor. It doesn't hurt when I collide with the cement. Nothing ever hurts. Actually, nothing feels like anything. Only the hollow, emptiness of being caught between worlds.
I take a deep breath and blink a few times while staring at the ceiling. I only imagine that I have a body. I move and act as if I do. I had never been ready to die. Maybe that is why I am having such a hard time converting to this new form. That or no one was meant to be in this form in the first place. Either way, I act and move as if gravity has an effect on me. As if I have to breathe or blink. As if I can't walk through walls and float up to the ceiling. I ignore all this. I don't want change. I want to be alive again...but that's impossible. I look straight up and wiggle my nonexistent toes. I seem to be able to feel them better when my eyes aren't reminding me they're imaginary. I stand up and walk to the far side of the room.
I spend most of my time down here. Usually in front of the mirror, or a 15-year-old family photo sagging on the wall. I approach the photo yet again. I looked directly at every face. The mother: Rachelle. She is nice. I always like her though she seemed to have aged quite a bit over those 15 years. In the photo she is holding an infant. His name is Cody. He is in high school now and is really quiet. I never really liked him. I'm not sure why.
The youngest child of the family had not yet been born when the picture was taken. Lilly is their 4-year-old. I see her on a daily basis, and I like her the best. Sometimes I think she can really see me. That has always given me hope. When her little eyes linger a moment on the air I inhabit I always feel a flush of excitement. Once, she smiled at me. I think that has been my happiest memory post-death.
I bring my attention back to the photo. To the last face. Richard. The father. A wave of anger courses through me. This is all his fault. He killed me. He was the one who cursed me to this horrid state of nonexistence. He will pay dearly. And I will enjoy every moment of it.
He is my ticket out. One way or another. He put me here. He will get me out or die trying. Quite honestly, I hope for the latter. Anger pulses through me in waves. I had never been an angry person when I was alive, but now I welcome the sensation. I feel almost human when I'm hating him. So many times I had thrown blows at the dusty glass in front the of the photo. I had wanted it to shatter. I wanted to feel it break under my power, but each time I tried, my arm slipped through and into the packed soil beyond the wall of the basement.
When I died, I had felt an immediate yearning to go on to the next place. I am still not sure where that is, but I know that it is peaceful and lovely. I caught a brief glimpse of it when the message came. After only a moment past my death, I got a vision. There was a beautiful woman standing in front of trees that were flowing like water. She told me that it was her job to come and fetch me so I could move on, but she could not.
I can still hear her voice clearly. "Your earthly soul is not at peace and will not rest until justified. Until then, you will have to carry on in this form. I will return when you are ready." And then she was gone. It took me a very long time to figure out what she had meant. I had followed my killer to where he hid my body. He had wrapped me in a tarp with chunks of cement and rocks before dumping me a few miles out into the Pacific Ocean. When he had gone, I floated down next to my dead form on the dark ocean floor. I didn't want to forget what I looked like.
I lied down inside of my body, trying to re-unite with it. I wanted it back. I was in a constant, miserable state. A form that was never meant to be. The only way I could compare it to my human life was the split second of misery before I threw up. I feel like that all the time now.
It took me weeks to figure out what the woman had meant. My death was not justified, so my soul is restless. Since I am still attached to this form of my soul, I can't move into the next dimension until I had parted with it. But how can I detach myself from myself? The only reasonable explanation is to bring my killer to justice. He pays. I leave. It's as simple as that.
I will have to force him to confess. That's why I'm here. I have been floating around in his basement for two months now. A few times a day, I go upstairs. I mostly wander around, looking for ways to communicate with him. To convince him to turn himself into the police. I'm not sure how just yet. The closest I have ever gotten to moving something was once a few weeks ago when I lifted up the corner of a napkin. Mostly, I just make people cold. Since my form can't hold heat, the air I inhabit is freezing cold. Every once and a while, someone in the house walks through me. They begin to protest the temperature and adjust the thermostat. Strange how ignorant some people can be. I do like to do that, though. It lets me know that I do really have a body. Even if I can't see it.
Even though I go upstairs to torment Richard, I always find myself avoiding him. No matter how hard I try, I can't shake the flashbacks. He hurt me, and I am still afraid of him.
The night I died was the first time I saw him. I was in my sophomore year of college. Funds were tight, so I picked up a late shift at one of the city's grocery stores. I was walking home when a drunken man sitting on the sidewalk asked for help up. At first, I tried to ignore him, but he asked again, more gently. I had always been a kind person. Too trusting. I helped him up only to find out that he wasn't nearly as impaired by the alcohol as I thought. It only took him moments to wrestle me into an alley. I screamed. He hit.
I tried to attract any kind of attention, but I didn't have enough time. He shoved me down and I felt my head crack on the cement as I fell awkwardly to the ground. It was only a moment before I blacked out.
Next thing I knew, I was hovering, watching the scene from behind the man. He took a minute before realizing what he had done. Then he panicked. He ran circles around my body, checking my pulse, then doing CPR. He tore out his phone and dialed 911. Just before he hit the send button, he realized the consequences of his actions. He snapped the phone shut. By then, he was crying in furious, frightened, shameful, drunken tears. He took a friends boat out on the ocean and dumped me. The next morning he only had flashes of memory. I think he knows what he did. I also think he lies to himself. He refuses to believe what he so clearly remembers. It makes me hate him even more.
I walk up the stairs and through the basement door, looking around the empty living room. I float over to the kitchen, wondering what time it is. The clock on the wall says 5:43 and the stove is on. Rachelle must be cooking. I wonder when Richard will be home. He has been wandering around town the past week, pretending to look for a new job. He got fired last week for being late too many times. Rachelle thinks he is depressed. I agree. I am also glad of it. Maybe he will die of guilt. But I can't be too optimistic.
I move over to the stove. Rachelle has a pot of boiling water sitting on the red-hot metal. I look through the glass lid. Spaghetti. I always loved spaghetti. I hold my invisible hand above the steam that is whistling through the gap between the lid and the pot. I like the way the steam feels. Well...almost feels anyway. I wish I can remember what it feels like to get burned. I slowly move my hand down to the surface of the stove to be on top of the burner. I like how it feels on my hand.
Soon, the pot stops boiling. I curse to myself and take my hand away. I had cooled the water. I feel guilty about it, but why? After a second, I place my hand back on the burner. What do I care if Richard's spaghetti is rubbery? The steam inside the pot stops rolling and I can see through the lid and straight into the water.
There is a thin layer of condensation on the underside of the lid, though, blocking my vision of the noodles. I move my hand up to them. To my surprise, the wayne away at my touch. I jump back and stare at the pot. Yes, the water droplets were gone where I had touched them. I get as close to the pot as I can without making contact. I slowly reach out a finger and place it on the lid, letting it slip past the barrier of glass in into the forest of water. The mist disappears again. I swipe my hand across the surface and all of the tiny droplets are wiped away. I stare at the clear glass, dumbfounded. After two months of trial and error, I have found a way to interact, to change something, to actually exist.
I shoot straight through the ceiling into one of the upstairs rooms. I need something else I can experiment with. I run and float from room to room. Lilly is sitting in the middle of her bed, trying to put a puzzle together. Cody is on the downstairs computer. Rachelle shuffles down the main stairs carrying a round basket of dirty laundry. I can't find anything else to work with. I need steam. Hot water. Where was there hot water?
I fly back down into the basement, to the water heater. Sure, there is hot water inside, but there is no way to see if I had any effect on it. I hear the front door open and close above me. I float up the stairs to see Richard dropping his coat on the dining room table along with his keys and wallet.
"Any luck?" Rachelle asks.
"Nah." He replies. "Theres a grocery store with an opening, but I want to do something a little more useful than that."
"Why don't you answer some of the ads in the paper, or put out your own?"
"You don't have to make such a big deal out of this. I'll get a job when I'm ready." He concludes, walking out of the room.
Rachelle shakes her head and walks into the kitchen. I follow Richard. He trudges upstairs and into the bathroom. I think I can smell traces of alcohol on his shirt as he drops it on the ground next to the hamper. He turns on the shower and lets the water warm up. Perfect. If it steams enough, maybe I can try out the condensation thing again. I wait patiently in the corner as he gets in the shower and draws the curtain across the rod. The bathroom is small. Maybe, if I'm lucky.
After what seemed like hours of waiting, a light fog begins to cover the mirror. I rush up to it, truly giddy for the first time since my death. I slowly bring my hand up the the corner of the mirror, extending one finger. The fog around that spot disappears in a perfect circle where my finger went through the surface of the glass. I whip around to make sure Richard is still preoccupied, more thrilled than I can ever remember. I could leave him a message. But what will I write? This is the first chance I have to communicate with him. I decide to keep it simple. I carefully put my finger back up the the glass and write in large, strict letters across the top of the mirror.

C O N F E S S

I stand back and look at my work. Perfect. If that isn't a clear message then I don't know what is. I hear the water turn off, and Richard steps out of the shower. He blindly sweeps towards the cupboard and gets a towel. He blots the soap from his eyes and wraps it around his torso.
When he turns back around, it takes him a moment to see my message. I am afraid that he will miss it, but he does a double-take at the mirror. It only takes him a split second to remember. I can practically see the flashbacks reflected in his eyes. He is confused, then frightened, then horrified, before breaking into sheer panic. He backs away from the mirror quickly, even though I am standing right behind him. He feels the chill of my presence and skips to the side, against the cabinet. His eyes are wide as they dart around the room looking for the threat. Looking for me. He looks so frightened.
I am truly pleased. I didn't think that he would have such a reaction. Still, his breathing is getting more shallow and rapid. I smile to myself and decide to take it one step farther. I float back up the mirror and add to my message.

O R D I E

Richard's eyes follow the letters as they appear. He stumbles backward towards the door, and fumbles for the knob for a moment before reaching it. Rachelle knocks on the door just as he is about to open it. Perfect. Richard jumps back from the door, unsure what portion of the room is safe to use as a hiding corner. Rachelle starts to open the door, but Richard pushes against her, keeping it closed.
"What are you doing in there?" She asks. "I need the laundry."
Richard struggles greatly to compose himself before replying. "Nothing. I'll be out in a minute." He says quietly.
"Is something wrong?" Rachelle asks.
"No, no, nothing." Richard says, too quickly. "Just give me a minute."
"Okay...Supper's ready." And she was gone.
Quickly and carefully, Richard shuffles towards the mirror, still clutching the towel to his body. He picks up the hand towel from the sink and swipes away the letters I had written. Once he was done, the skipped out of the room as fast as possible, leaving me alone.
Once he leaves, I allow myself to celebrate. I hadn't thought that it would be this easy. He was scared stiff. The look in his eyes. Perfect! If I keep this up he would confess anytime. I just had to make sure he didn't know that my power was limited to writing in water vapor. I let myself drift through the floor and into the basement. I never really liked floating through walls, but right now I don't care.
I spin around in circles, celebrating my victory. I had done something. Something real. He knows I'm here. I haven't been this happy since the day I died. I drift over to the mirror. I still can't see myself, but it doesn't bother me. I know I have a body. I just can't see it. I used my finger to write the letter. That means that I'm here, and that's good enough for me. I fly in circles around the room, unable to contain my joy. I can't even stand to be alone. After a few seconds of zooming around, I shoot straight up through the ceiling and into the living room upstairs. I can see the family seated in the kitchen around the corner and I move in to join them. Cody is texting under the table while Rachelle spoons some sauce over his pasta and slides the plate in front of him. Lilly is bouncing up and down eagerly. She is always so happy. I am glad I'm not the only one who's flying high. Richard is sitting in his usual seat, holding a newspaper gingerly in front of him. He is staring intently at the page, but his eyes aren't moving and his face is a ghostly white. He is still sweating. I'm glad I got through to him. I sit on the counter by the sink and watch them all as they begin to eat.
I never really got a lot of family meals growing up. I was juggled from one foster home to the next until I was old enough to move out. Since then, I didn't make any friends. I stopped doing that a long time ago. If you don't let anyone close to you, they can't hurt you. Or so I thought.
Lilly pipes up. "Mamma, I think Sara's hungry. Can she eat with us?"
I stare at her. Richard stared too. She doesn't have any school friend's by the name of Sara.
Rachelle gives her a small smile. " Who's Sara, Sweetheart?" She asks in a kind, motherly tone.
"She's my friend." Lilly replies innocently.
"And where is she?"
Lilly points directly at me. I stare at the empty air I inhabited then back at her. Could she really see me? All eyes turn towards me, groping around the air, trying to find what the she is pointing at.
"Honey, I don't see anything." Rachelle says calmly, sipping from her water glass. "Do you have an imaginary friend?"
Lilly tries to explain. "No, she's not imaginary, but I'm the only one who can see her."
"I see," Rachelle said. "I suppose we can spare a little food for your friend."
Lilly jumps up and scoops some spaghetti onto a fresh plate before setting it on the counter beside me. She stops and stares around the room for a minute, before rushing back to her mother.
"Mamma, Sara's gone!" She cries.
"I'm sure she's fine, honey, maybe she will come back later. Finish your supper" Lilly obeys and I look back down at myself and the plate of food next to me. Could she really see me? She had to have, otherwise she wouldn't know where I was. But why did she lose me? Maybe her sight was only temporary. Maybe I stopped her from seeing me. Maybe she chose not to. I have no idea.
I look back up to see Richard staring tentatively around the room. He knows I'm here. I guess Lilly's little vision scared him more than it scared me. Rachelle, however seems to be convinced that I am Lilly's imaginary friend, hidden safely in her realm of daydreams. Cody is still tuned into his phone. He had only paused for a moment of Lilly's exclamation before rolling his eyes and turning back to his virtual conversation.
Richard's eyes dart around the room. I think Lilly might have pushed him over the edge. He stands up abruptly and walks out of the room.
"You haven't finished eating." Rachelle calls after him.
"Not hungry." He mutters back, just loud enough to hear.
I'm not quite sure what to do now, so I follow Richard. I wonder what he is going to do next. Hopefully, call the police station and spill his guts. He wrings his hands together while walking down the hall. I can almost see the veins pounding on his neck. He freezes when he passes the bathroom door. Slowly, he pokes his head in.
He looks around the room for a few seconds, and I place my hand on the back of his neck. He breaks out in goosebumps and jolts away. I smile at his reaction, wondering exactly what he is thinking right now. He scurries down the hall and into a room before slamming the door on my face. I slip through it easily. He locks the door anyway.
He sits down on the corner of the bed and draws his knees up to his chest. I don't think I have ever seen a grown man sit in the fetal position, but I suppose there is a first time for everything. His breathing is shallow and rapid, and goosebumps are still covering his neck and arms. I also see that he is sweating. Wow, this is going to be easier than I thought.
"I'm going crazy..." He whispers to himself, burying his head in his arms. No. He can't say that. He has to know I'm here. He can't pass this off as a hallucination. I wish I could speak to him, write on something, anything! The only thing I can do is make him cold. So I do. I put both hands on his back and neck. He sputters and kicks back into the bed.
"You're real, aren't you?" He whispers hysterically. "Where are you? What do you want?"
I can't really respond, but I'd give anything to be able to speak right now.
"Well!?" He says in his full voice. "Where are you?!" I know he is speaking at a normal tone, but it sounds like he is creaming compared to the dead silence of the room. His ragged breath is the only thing breaking the silence.
I sat across the room from him. I held very still and concentrated on making him see me. It wasn't working. His eyes flickered around the room. "You're ...her... aren't you?" He rasped. "The girl...I didn't mean to..." Suddenly, Rachelle opened the door, and Richard nearly jumped off the bed.
She looks at him, clearly concerned. "You okay?" She asked tentatively. "You've been acting strangely today. Do you feel okay?"
"No, I think I'm just stressed out. I'm okay. I think I need to get out for a while..."
"But you just got home." Rachelle interjects.
"I know but I just can't sit still. I have to get out." He stands up and sidesteps her to get to the door.
"Where are you going? She asks, grabbing his elbow to stop him.
"I don't know. You need anything in town?"
"I don't think so. Just be back before nine, I guess."
"Alright." He says as he walks into the hallway.
"Richard?" Rachelle's voice stops him.
"Yes?" He replies.
"I love you." She says, giving him a hug from behind.
Richard manages to make a small smile and turn to face her. " I love you too. I'll be back soon." He kisses her and leaves before her eyes could open.
I follow him as he moves rapidly through the house. I know that he is only leaving to get away from me, but I follow anyway. He pauses on the doorstep, as the freezing chill of January hits his exposed skin. He is still in a long sleeved shirt, and the wind cuts straight through the thin fabric. He turns to get his coat before remembering that it is still in the dining room. Not wanting to go back inside, he makes his way to the car in the cold.
I float into the passenger seat and Richard steers the car to the end of the driveway. At first, he looks back and forth, unsure which way to go. He decides to take a left. I smile to myself as we get on mainstreet. The police station is only a few blocks ahead. He's going to turn himself in!
I bounce up and down on the seat, or at least I try to. Richard is obviously getting frustrated. The car slips around on the icy streets, and he curses the Minnesota winter. He clenches his jaw and grips the steering wheel, fighting with himself. He is terrified. That is easy to see, though I am honestly surprised I managed to get to him after only a few hours of torment. Perhaps he was regretting before I started haunting him.
After a moment, he stretches over the council and unlatched the glove box. He pulls out a flask of liquor. I think I start to hate him more every second. He takes a few long gulps before turning right onto the next street. The police station is planted on the corner. I am buzzing. Finally I am going to escape this cursed existence.
Richard pulls up in one of the parking spots of the police station. He shivers in the cold, unable to be fully warm, especially when I am in the car with him. He buries his face in his hands and breathes deeply. I want him to hurry up. I can't stand to be here anymore. I realize he's scared, but I don't care. He's the reason I'm here. He is going to get me out.
I reach out and touch his arm. He begins to shiver even more. Maybe I can just freeze him so he will hurry up and go inside. Slowly, he opens the door and starts to get out. Finally. He walks up to the door and I follow. A few faces turn to look at him from the inside. He is crying now. What a wimp. He deserves this.
He reaches for the door before seeing the people inside. His eyes flash from face to face and he bails. He turns and runs back to the car, nearly slipping on the icy sidewalk. I rush after him, fuming. He can't do this. Why does he have to be such a coward!?
I try to stop him, to pull him back, but he slips through my hands when I grab him. I am fuming at him. Is it really so hard? Just walk in and tell them what you did! He gets in the car and I do too. I sit there next to him and hit him with all my might as he starts the car. My arms slide through him and the seat, so I just flail around, furiously that I can't do anything. He pulls out of the parking lot quickly and drove towards the edge of town. His face is red, and he is still crying. He hits the blacktop and flies down the road at 70 mph. I try to scream, unable to make a sound without a body. I thrash around and don't hit anything. I am miserably helpless. How could I really think that he would just turn himself in? What am I going to do now!?
Finally, I sink into the seat and let my eyes bore into him. I glare at him with all the fires of hell. This is his fault. He will pay for this. I will make him pay.
His eyes flash over to me and he screams.
He saw me... He saw me!
Richard jerks away from me and the car swerves. He tries to correct it while plastering himself against the window. The back of the car begins to the swing around. Within moments the entire car is spinning down the icy road at incredible speed. I can't keep up, and I slide out of the passenger door. I hear Richard scream as the car plows into the ditch and rolls twice before coming to rest upside down. I fly over to it and peer in. There is glass and debris everywhere. I float upside down to see more clearly. I don't see Richard. Quickly I turn around and see him. He is sitting at the base of the ditch in a crumpled heap. The car must have crushed him.
He is gone. I stare at his body, confused. It all happened so quickly... After a moment, a smile breaks across my face. He is dead. He is gone. He has paid. I can move one! I fly into the air and look for the woman who was supposed to fetch me. I spin in circles laughing to myself. I am free. Free at last!
After several minutes, nothing happens. I fly back down to Richard, looking around tentatively. This is it right? I did it... Right?
I stop and stared at the car. He...he hadn't been brought to justice. He had died. It was an accident. If it wasn't an accident then I had killed him. It wasn't justice. It was revenge. I sit down next to his body and stare at him. He hadn't been brought to justice.
He is dead. I have failed.
I fly back to the house as fast as I can and curl up in the corner across from the mirror. Richard is dead. I killed him. I am never going to be free now. There is no way to convict a murderer if he's dead.
I stare around the room before my eyes land on the mirror. I float up to it. I stare into the glass, and, for the first time, I see myself staring back. I see a hazy outline of my old form. A girl with tousled hair and dark eyes. I can see my body. Hands, feet, legs, arms, torso. Everything. Like a real ghost. The ones you see in movies.
Slowly, I begin to understand.
I have a form now because I will be staying here. Forever.
I will never be free.