I’ll tell you how I died, but you have to promise not to laugh. I’m serious.

I was living alone in a tiny apartment in Allston, Massachusetts -- I was living alone because my boyfriend, Gary, just left me. I know what you’re picturing: some big, millennial brawl where we threw our IKEA flatware at each other and set fire to each other’s laundry baskets while I screamed, “Who is she?! Who is she?!”

I wish. That feels like an ending worthy of a long-winded relationship.

Instead, I came home from work one day and he was gone.

His stuff was gone too -- no trace of him left to burn except the couch he dragged in from the street corner a month before (the couch with the weird, dark red splotch that could’ve been spilled wine, but was probably blood).

It felt like a game. Like an Easter egg hunt. Like I’d find all his stuff hidden in the dark corner at the back of the closet or in the cabinet under the sink or behind the dumpster in the alley.

He changed his number. Deleted Facebook. His emails bounced.

He must have had his best buddy, Todd, come by, while I was out. Must’ve loaded up Todd’s dingy white pick-up with his X-box and flannel shirts and driven off into the sunset.

They were probably at Todd’s college, cracking open beer bottles with undergrad cleavage, or whatever it is 26-year-old toddler men do.

Anyway, enough about them. They were out of my life. Losers.

I was living alone.

Single for the first time since senior year of college and determined to enjoy it.

I wanted to whip myself into shape, to scrub off those soft layers that piled on from all our nights ordering in. I wanted to sculpt myself into a bullet, bold and sleek and ready to crash through new apartments and beds unharmed.

I made myself a lean, mean shrimp scampi with zucchini noodles.

It was so good, I shoveled it down my throat. I shoveled so much of it down my throat at once that a large chunk of shrimp blocked my airway.

And then I died. On my coffee table. Trying to give myself the Heimlich.

I died on a pile of trashy grocery-store-checkout-line magazines with tips on plumping up my flat butt and faking cheekbones with bronzer.

I died with QVC on in the background on mute; it was comforting -- the bright colors and white smiles, the confidence that buying this cowl/scarf/skirt/leg-warmer would make your sorry life bearable.

I died with a hamper overstuffed with sweaty sports bras, three overdue cable bills, $42,365 in deferred student loan debt, four missed calls from my mother and a perfectly portioned triple-layer chocolate mousse chilling in the fridge (that I would never eat).

I blamed Gary.

The only real benefit to being a ghost (and there are many downsides: you’re always cold, you’re always tired, you’re always hungry but you can’t eat) is that you can pop across any distance just by thinking about where you’re going.

The bad news is -- popping drains your energy. The more energy you store up, the more you can interact with the living world. The less energy you have, the more invisible you are. The best way to store energy is to sit still and charge up.

That’s why the only ghost sightings you hear about are creepy 18th century women in frilly nightgowns – they’re just old homebodies.

First, I wanted to visit my parents and watch my demise bring them together to sob on each other’s shoulders. That’s what divorced parents are supposed to do when their only child dies tragically, right? Put aside their differences and mourn together.

Instead, they were quiet, distant. Maybe shocked, maybe just embarrassed that they put so much effort into raising a daughter who choked to death on an ocean spider. They stood on opposite ends of the church, like different parties at a wedding.

When the funeral was over, and the rest of my stuff was carted out of my apartment, they went their separate ways. They even deleted each other’s names out of their cells, like teenagers.

Dad went back to his girlfriend and mom moved to a retirement community in Florida, even though she hadn’t even hit 60.

By the way, Gary didn’t even bother going to my funeral. Ass.

I popped back to the Allston apartment, because it felt right. When you die somewhere, you have a special connection to it. It feels like a childhood Christmas eve at home-- all cozy and meaningful.

Growing up, before my parents divorced, we didn’t have a fireplace, but we put the Yule Log on our TV and cranked the thermostat up as high as it would go. I’d swaddle myself in scratchy blankets on the sofa and crunch down on supermarket sugar cookies and read flowery Santa Claus origin stories and feel so warm and peaceful.

That’s how that ratty apartment felt to me now. It was a place of rest and restoration. It was powerful.

I spent a few days on my own, relaxing. And then -- a couple moved in.

They were older – must’ve been in their 60’s – too old to be sharing an apartment this cruddy. From what I could tell, they both just left their spouses for each other. And they couldn’t be friggin’ happier about it.

Lydia and Sam. Lydia was edgy, dressed in flowing black clothing, wore obnoxious perfume and painted pictures of naked women. Sam was sensitive and soulful and sang in a bluegrass cover band.

I hated them.

I hated the way they cooked dinner together. I hated the way Sam burned the salmon and Lydia still ate it and pretended it was delicious. I hated the way that burned salmon made my place smell like a fish market for weeks. I hated that my sense of smell was still functional.

I hated the way they danced together without music playing. I hated the way they brushed their teeth together, and clipped their toenails together, and I even hated the way they both went about their own business and looked up every once in a while to blow each other a kiss.

But the worst part was when they were intimate.

I tried to leave as soon as they started undressing, but I was still too weak to pop away. So I stood in the kitchen, as far away as I could get from the bedroom, and tried to drown out their moans and grunts with my own loud thoughts.

Eventually, I mustered my strength and turned on their blender.

Sam came running out of the bedroom, half-naked, wielding an acoustic guitar by its neck like a sword. “Who’s there?” he shouted over the whirring.

Lydia pushed him aside. She headed straight for the kitchen and shut off the blender, no nonsense.

“Must’ve been a power surge or something.”

She looked right at me as she said it. Could she see me?

I decided I wanted them out.

Seeing them together made my blood boil, and I’m not sure I even have blood anymore. Whatever was boiling, it probably wasn’t good for my health.

I thought I knew how to scare them away. But every time I turned on the microwave or shut off the TV, they thought it was faulty wiring. When I smacked down picture frames of their grandchildren, they thought I was a rat.

I thought it might be easier to freak them out at night in their bedroom (I’ve watched a lot of horror movies). So one night, I gently eased open their door and wandered in.

I saw them tangled together on the bed together in a shaft of moonlight. Like something out of a dream. Fast asleep, soft smiles on their faces. Breathing in tandem.

They looked so damn peaceful.

Gary and I never slept like that.

We slept like my parents did the year before they announced their divorce – bookending the bed. I know I’m a sweaty sleeper, but still.

I decided it was finally time to visit Gary.

I felt strong enough.

I found him in another small apartment bedroom – one I didn’t recognize – with a view across the Charles toward Allston. It was quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the occasional breath of a passing car.

Gary was sitting on the side of the bed in an undershirt, nipping at his fingernails. He did that when he was nervous. Bad habit.

I walked toward him, put my hand on his cheek.

I gathered every ounce of energy I had, every bit of affection for him I ever felt, and I made myself appear.

His eyes widened. He didn’t scream.

“Abby?” he asked.

I looked down at him. Really looked at him. I couldn’t say anything, but I tried.

“Abby…”

I held it as long as I could. I wanted it to be real.

And then I faded, I was invisible again.

Gary started crying-- big, ugly sobs.

A lump under the covers beside him stirred.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Todd said, emerging.

He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around a trembling Gary.

“Shh, it’s okay.”

Gary leaned back into Todd, they pressed their foreheads together. Almost… romantic.

Oh.

“I saw Abby,” Gary said to Todd. “She looked terrible.”

Jesus. Can’t I ever catch a break?

“It’s just a bad dream. It’s gonna be okay.”

Gary looked back over at me, questioning.

I nodded.

He closed his eyes and leaned into Todd. Sank back into bed with him.

I felt my blood turn to flat soda, the hate and anger drain away, and I waited for the light...

No light yet. Guess I might have another lesson to learn.

I tried to pop back home, but I was too weak. So I walked. As I crossed the city, I saw other loners – maybe humans, maybe just their ghosts -- scrolling on their phones for comfort.

I had always known, I think. I should’ve been the first to leave.

The next time I save up some energy, I think I’ll pop down to Florida and visit mom.

Chapter 1.

When I explain my plan, Grandma tells me not to bother. She says my father is the reason the sky is gray—always gray like everything else in Benton, including our dog. I pat the floor. Ash ambles over and nudges my hand with his wet snout. I scratch behind his ears.

"Your father could suck the color from anything he touched, aging it on the spot. He's the reason I'm old." She laughs. "Might want to reconsider your trip, Elaine."

"You're being dramatic," I say.

Grandma stands and, without grabbing her cane, limps over and lifts my chin with two thick fingers, demanding my gaze with her cloudy green eyes. I feel the momentum of the slap she wants to deliver. Because Mom is in the kitchen, within earshot, I am emboldened and stare back. There is a spark in her eyes then, something like lightning, and I scoot over, begin fiddling with my phone.

The last time Grandma lost her temper, I was seven. She paced the living room, looking for me, yelling because I had cut up her bra to make my doll a new dress. When she found me hiding behind the chair next to the fireplace, she spun around with such velocity that it seemed the contents of the room lifted and moved with her. A sturdy handheld radio, an antique, fell from the mantel and hit me just above the ear. It didn't hurt at the time, but I was upset enough to let Mom think I was in agony and to watch, pleased, as Grandma placed her cards and sweaters into an oversized canvas bag, all gloomy-eyed about the move to Uncle Don's trailer a few miles away.

Grandma was only gone a week, that delicious week, but she came back looking as though we'd sent her to prison. "How can anyone live like that?" she kept asking us, nodding her head back and forth. She was appalled by Uncle Don's constant flatulence and poor grooming habits, not to mention his inability to remember to put the milk away after cereal.

Now, Grandma spends most of her time asleep or in a mildly threatening state of near-wakefulness. She says she gets more accomplished in her dreams than she does during the humdrum of waking life. Sure, she gets angry regularly, but she doesn't lose her temper—not in the same way. Instead, she lets her anger out in quick-witted insults that sometimes cut so deep that I'd prefer the slap. Her eyes contain the storm, and it's most visible with any mention of my father.

Mom enters the room holding two spoons heaped with raw brownie mix. She hands me one, looks at Grandma, and says, "Rattle never made things gray, or any color, for that matter. How about focusing on something positive, eh? When the girl goes back to school, it's countdown to the big track meet, then graduation." She winks at me, and I place my phone face-down on the table.

"Rattle didn't help her with any of that. She did it on her own," Grandma says. It's almost a compliment, but she quickly takes it back by adding, "I'm just saying. Why doesn't the girl think about boys, like a normal teenager? She should have had a boyfriend or two by now, rather than running herself into the ground, then going off on some crazy trip to find a loser—"

Mom puts up her hand, a stop sign, and Grandma purses her lips.

"I'm focused! Grades and track matter more than any Benton boys. Besides, I could have a boyfriend if I wanted one."

I feel the warmth of Grandma's breath as she hovers. "Every girl wants a boyfriend in high school. You're all just a bundle of hormones and teeth."

I examine the chocolate on my spoon, and though I would ordinarily take small bits of it onto my tongue and savor the sweetness, a thing I don't allow myself much of during training, I do something I know will unnerve her. Locking her gaze, I unhinge my jaw and open my mouth as wide as I can. I put the whole spoonful in, quickly realizing it's too much and resisting the urge to gag, instead letting the mixture soften on my palate. Grandma's eyes rage.

"Very ladylike."

"Chocolate shot!" I say, my mouth still sticky with the thick batter. I am about to cough, and need water, but I give Grandma a glimpse by opening my mouth wider instead. Before yelling at me, she looks at Mom again.

"She acts like she's seven, not seventeen! For heaven's sake!"

"Mother, lay off. It's a high-stress time for Elaine. Lay. Off." Mom puts the other spoon in her mouth the same way I did and smirks defiantly. She always takes my side, but this is because Grandma is mean. Acerbic might be a better word.

"You two are out of control," Grandma says.

A look of familiar regret crosses Mom's face before she swallows the mass of chocolate. She says, "Don will be happy to entertain you if you want to play the mean old woman this week, you hear?"

Grandma waves this off. "Oh, you know I mean well, Josephine. I worry about this kid is all. She doesn't have her head in the right place. She's in fantasy land, and she's too old for that."

Mom winks at me. She reaches for my spoon and tucks her long dark hair behind a tiny ear with three diamonds dotting the lobe. I examine her shadow-heavy eyes, searching for the hopefulness I used to see glimpses of. I know she's proud of me, but I worry she's lost confidence that anything will ever change for her.

She says, "Your father would be damn proud of you right now." She looks past me, as though she sees him. I can't help but look back too, toward the empty space leading to our front door.

I stand, kiss Grandma on her cool cheek as I pass, and take the spoons back from Mom's hand before they fall. "Your opinion is the only one that matters," I whisper. I squeeze her arm and toss the spoons, ready for Grandma's exasperated gasp when they clang against the sink.

I'm known around Benton, not only for being Rattle's daughter but also for running the loop faster than any other girl in the history of Benton High. Faster than most of the boys, for that matter. I'm a champ when it comes to the mid-distance, but my championship status stops at the local scene.

Two years ago, I started writing about my race times, eating tips, and visualization strategies. I've read a lot of books about training and techniques, and I've always taken my running seriously, but all the effort has never mattered more than it does senior year—my last chance to attract the attention of a recruiter. I can't rest on my laurels. Who cares if I am featured in the local paper or win a race if, five years from now, I’ll just end up working a crap job and dreaming about what could have been? I need to set new records. I have no choice.

The sad fact is, I haven't seen any recruiters, and my test scores aren't as good as I know they could be. For a while, I thought I could defy the odds by posting my running times and race pictures to a blog I started called Catch Me: Elaine's Running Life. But I haven't had many hits. I have eight followers: Joey, a theater kid who wears checkered belts and always quotes—or misquotes—Mamet plays; Uncle Don, Mom, two people who live in South Korea and have cartoon profile images; my bestie, Michaela; and Owen, a nice guy who is in love with Michaela and runs long-distance. Then there's Anonymous, no location and no image. It could be my father. It'd be appropriate, the mere shadow outline of a man's profile.

Only my friends post comments. No recruiters, no coaches.

Grandma was right last year when she said, "Big fish in a small pond. No, not even a pond, a puddle." She'd said it right after track finals, laughing as she shoved a forkful of steak into her mouth at what was supposed to be my celebratory dinner. I should've been rejoicing, but the truth stung worse than my cramped quads.

I wrote about my frustration, in list form: "10 Reasons No Recruiters Come to Benton." I got an immediate response from Owen, who wrote, "Keep moving forward," which I found equal parts kind and annoying. Later, I got a more pessimistic response from Joey: "The comparative scales are unbalanced in the Rust Belt."

"Maybe, but it won't stop me," I wrote. Determined emoji. I wait for a recruiter to take the bait. I know how unrealistic it would be that some college recruiter from Stanford or Florida State would happen on my blog, but I keep checking nonetheless.

Benton, Ohio, is a small town known for Sal's Pizza and Jenny's Ice Cream, not championships of any sort. I often wonder if this trapped feeling is why my father left without thinking about recourse. Sometimes I feel the desire to just keep running, to find a new reality, and I wonder if it’s in my genes.

What tempted my father to leave is one thing, what made him do it with a daughter and wife—I don’t know. I’d like to know. I’ll leave the right way, stay in touch and give back. But to get out, I’m realizing that an opportunity needs to arrive, and I’ll have to be better than good. I’ll have to be so fast that my running times will be impossible to ignore.

I set local records in both the 400- and 800-meter races my freshman year and broke them both by junior year. I know what it is to set a goal and to work toward it. I know I can push harder, but I also know it will require an insane amount of focus. I imagine myself on my best day. I see myself just ahead, and I surge. I see the whole race in my mind. I glance at the corner of the room.

When I finally get the chance to shake my father's hand, I won't mention how tired Mom is. I won't mention my desire to go to college or interest in economics. I won't mention anything about running, or Grandma's expensive medications, or even the constant questioning in my mind. I won't mention anything at all. I won't even ask him why. The only thing that will matter if I meet him is that my grip is firm.

I know I should be tackling the paving

out at the front where the wind is blowing

down from the hills the wind

is blowing, gale force.

In the back garden's warmer wilderness

sheltered by trees, neglected, overgrown

I kneel to make a start, untangling

a bed of herbs.

And its a happy choice of task

for I am cheered no end

and cleansed of Autumn's blues

by cutting back old stems

releasing many green and pungent scents

mingling their magic, marjoram, mint

thyme, sweet cecily, fennel, purple sage.

Aroma Therapy.

She was the beauty in the flames

The twirling dance of danger and fire

Hypnotic perfection hovering wild

Just above the innocent need in her eyes.

Fractured bones of brutal strength

Support the bending weight of

Shoulders too slight.

She is cracked and not quite broken.

The silence in the wind

The coming storm of perfect

Waves

Drawn out beneath the turmoil of

The sky.

She is beauty and unseen strength

She is bourbon and water and fire.

Born from the bitterness of death,

A once tall majestic mountain

Cut down in one swift breath.

In volcanic ecstasy, a toxic fountain

Of ash climbed high into the sky above,

And dragged the mountain down;

Down into the Earth the mountain dove,

And left only a crater with a ragged crown.

It was just so empty for so long,

Echoed in the sadness, desolation,

It just seems so very wrong

When ash flows left it in isolation,

But now, the healing balm of seven

Millennia has made it shine once more.

Filled with crystal water to reflect heaven,

Life returned to its once vacant shore.

With autumn, I'm a quiet thing, 

the skirt of fog trailing as

engines whine alive. Go find me

among the grinning burs, restless 

with some tale of me; in 

cyclones of dust; my kiss 

on every balmy blade of grass and 

blushing leaf. 

One day, I will shake the bones out of these trees. 

I know that you want more from me.

But today I watch the red sun 

between seams of rain clouds, curled 

up in some spot of warmth, a 

quiet thing with autumn - let me sleep. 

You don't ask my name because names don't matter in a juke-joint where smoke's thicker than sense. Beer drips off the tap in heady froth that begs to be suckled. You lick your lips and I lick mine and I know we're going to get along just fine. 

You don't ask my age. In here everyone is any age you want. In the corner booth where shadows darken your eyes into those of a hungry carnivore, I'm fresh prey, naive and sweet. But on the dance floor, in the liquid lights of red and orange and pink, while the juke-pop whines, I'm wise to the world, and my body promises delights yours begs to taste. 

We drink cheap tequila. I lick salt from your hand, tasting your skin, and I'm left wanting. You rub lime on my lips, reducing me to a shivering creature whose mouth needs yours. The warmth in my belly is no longer from the alcohol alone. Your hands pull my hips to yours. Who is who in this tangled mass of limbs? Does it matter? Do we care? We are drunk on a stronger stuff than this bar sells.

Tumbling into the alley, I press you against the wall, taking from your body every ounce of comfort and lust and desire I can. Sparks spring between our hips, send fire down our legs so our knees shake, and we cling to keep from falling. Fingers tangle in each other's hair, and I cannot have enough of you, nor you of me. 

Your apartment is here, you say. Just a bit farther. The air never smelled so sweet as with your scent, made sharper by the night air, on my shirt. Trust is already forgotten or forged--same difference--and I come with you. 

Bourbon, you ask. Whiskey, I say. Both, we laugh. Our skin is electric. The floorboards tip and sway. You hold the bottles. I hold your belt loops. The bed is a life-boat into which we tumble. Our safety from life's storms will be found in one another, we promise. 

The water is not safe. Drink, we cry together. The storm swells higher, and we cling tighter than two lovers ever clung. There is no food left. Drink, we say. We shall survive it all.

The bottles empty. With our own juices, we write love letters on the sheets. Once written, we put our letters in bottles and toss them out to sea. Broken glass smashes, christening the walls. 

We are lost, you cry. 

No, I say, we are found.

Rations gone, we fall on one another. Our hunger is bigger than either of us. We cannibalize one another--tongues lick, mouths taste, eat, eat, eat...until la petite morts cums, drags us drowning to the bottom of the sea...

...morning light blinds my salt-gritted eyes. My dry lips crack when I try to speak, to say, I am lost. Lost-lost. Truly this time.

You were not you. And I was not me. 

My head pounds. I cannot bear for you to see my nakedness. You twine in a stained sheet, tight as a shroud. My belongings are scattered on the floor, studded with broken glass. 

I start to say something awkward and awful, but you shake your head. 

I turn and go. 

Strewn across disheveled sheets,

our limbs still entangled.

The smell of your skin

still lingering on my fingertips.

Sunday mornings will forever belong

to you and me.

I know you well, though not as well as you know me--

my pores, my doubts, the soft places you sneak through,

the backdoors and siege tunnels into my life.

Ever present, especially when I cannot see you,

though it's never because you're not there,

it's just that sometimes (usually when things are going well) I forget to look.

Those are the times you lay me out cold. 

I forget to be vigilant, let my armor crack, so you pour into me through the fissures.

For a moment, I want to take comfort in your familiar embrace...

Then I remember who you are and what you do.

You know me well but I know you too.

So I patch all my holes and my chinks and my hollows

until there is nowhere for you to reach me.

But it never stops.

I can never let down my guard.

You're always waiting in the wings.

                 Watching...

                         Whispering...

                                  Wondering when I'll waver...

Perhaps, this time, I won't. 

Love is my drug,

My obsession,

My desire.

I need to be needed,

Told I'm pretty,

Feel the ember light,

Fill this empty space,

Give me hope,

Watch me break.

I meet their eyes,

Hear soft lies,

Fall for their charms,

Each one the same.

I'm hooked on destruction,

Dependant on passion,

The pain it will bring,

When the high goes,

I crash hard and heavy,

And I'm all alone.

Don't stop,

Don't think,

Feel the lips on mine,

The warmth of their arms,

Stay in the clouds forever,

Can't let this addiction go,

I'm dying inside,

This is all that keeps my heart alive...