Ghosts

I see ghosts.

I've always seen ghosts. Ghosts are everywhere. In the school, in the library, in my house.

When I was younger, my mom took me to a therapist.

Eventually, I learned to lie.

Lying is easy. Honesty is harder.

For all of these reasons, I wasn't totally surprised when I woke up to see Hitler on my bed.

"Hello, Avery."

"How do you know my name?" The question comes out automatically. I've never seen a ghost that could talk before. Mostly they stare on in silence.

"I've been waiting for a chance to meet you. After all, you're the only one on earth who can see me." He eyes me up and down. I can see his disapproval, but it doesn't reach me. It fizzles out in between me and his eyes. "Though I would have preferred it if you were..."

He doesn't finish. Straight? Blonde? Blue eyed? There are a million reasons for this man to hate me. But I don't see hate in his eyes.

I don't have anything to say to that.

You'd think that, since I'm in a room with a mass murderer, I'd be afraid. But I'm not. Ghosts cannot touch you. I'm surprised Hilter is even talking. Most ghosts will never even see the current world. They exist in a fantasy of their past.

"Look what has happened to your world," Hitler says. "Even without me, you are eating yourself from the inside."

"I can't argue. But why do you care if we take ourselves apart? You tried and failed. Isn't this just finishing your work?"

"Decades of death can change a man," Hitler says. I stare into his stony brown eyes, and I wonder: has he really changed at all?

"How are you able to see? Our world, I mean."

Hitler laughs. "I am stronger. Like you, I was able to see into the realm of death. So I can see into the realm of life."

I am stronger. Right.

He really hasn't changed.

"Tell me something," I say, holding my cold green gaze to his. "Why the Aryan race? Why blonde hair and blue eyes, if you could idealize dark hair and brown eyes, like yourself?"

I stare in shock and something almost like pity when I see Hitler look at himself with an expression of pure disgust.

"Why would I want that? Blue eyes and blonde hair are pure. I am... unclean."

"Maybe cleanliness goes deeper than looks," I say. "Maybe you made yourself unclean, by killing all those people."

"They deserved to die," Hitler spits. "All of them."

The placid look fades from his eyes, replaced by a manic rage.

He hasn't changed. He will never change.

He is unmovable, a statue.

"You destroy the point of being a ghost," I say, fighting to keep my voice even. I am not scared... merely... angry. Hitler was a bad man in life. When you're a ghost, you're supposed to learn. To change. To grow. And that is how you move on from this earth. "You haven't learned a thing. You never will. And for that, you should not be here."

"I could help you," Hitler sneers. "I could take away your sight. No more ghosts."

"You're lying." I no longer have to fight to stay calm. My voice is as flat as a still lake.

"But you don't know that. You want me to be telling the truth. You want to get rid of your... curse."

"My curse is mine to bear."

"You would give up your chance at normalcy?"

I think about how to respond. Maybe it's that I don't want help from a psycho. Maybe it's something about the way Hitler stared down at himself. He views himself as vermin. Just like he sees everyone else. To him, no one is worthy of my curse. To him, my curse is a gift. And he sees a chance to take away my gift.

I don't know how this could ever be a gift. Everyone thinks you're crazy. Everyone thinks I'm crazy.

And yet... I don't want to give it up.

Because it's a reminder. A reminder to let go of your present mistakes. Let go of your hate. Your vengeance. Because life as a ghost is not real. It doesn't help you atone. It hurts. It's evil. It's wrong. And everything in your body and mind screams that you shouldn't be here. I have to keep my curse. Because if I were to live my life as a normal person, I could end up exactly where Hitler is right now— stuck in the past.

And the past is a bad place to be.