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In retrospect, there are probably worse ways to die.
It's by no means much, but at the moment it's all she has. She says probably because she's not sure she remembers. There's a buzzing static where her death should be, white noise that stings behind her eyes and explodes in her chest, leaving her shaking and sparking at the end of the memory.
She's since learnt not to try and remember.
The crackling electricity that whispers up and down her arms and in her eye sockets is enough suggest she was electrocuted, and she chooses to be content with that. Countless others have asked her how she died and why, who she was with, when it happened; and if she snaps at them with static in her skin it's only because she's just as confused as them, and they just bring back the pain, and the fear, and the overwhelming sense of something, something she can't quite place why can't she remember oh god stop it please it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurtsithursthitrs
Her name is Marilyn Vendetta and the only reason she knows that is because it's written in the sole of her shoes.
Being around the other ghosts just reminds her of how empty her chest is and how no one can ever tell her how to fill it, so she stays in her haunting in the yellow wooded house and she minds her own business and absolutely does not try to remember.
Until the girl moves in.
The girls been gradually moving her things in for weeks, and no matter how many things mysteriously fall off shelves and break or how many times her belongings are thrown back outside, she simply laughs it off and continues moving in.
And that really pisses Marilyn off.
She throws things, tears boxes apart, hides precious things under the house, every single trick she's come to learn in her time as a ghost. And yet the girl simply picks them up, throws the boxes out, and crawls under the house to come back up dirty and scratched, always smiling as she does so.
Marilyn hates her.
She really really hates her.
On the last day, the girl carries in a cat curled in her arms, cooing softly and petting it gently. She sets it down next to Marilyn on the couch without knowing, and the cat takes one look at her and hisses in rage before bolting out the door and out onto the street. It takes four days for it to stop running from her on sight and by then Marilyn has made the decision that this girl absolutely cannot stay here. She spends two weeks broadcasting nothing but static on the tv, shocking the power out about twice daily, and creaking floorboards and scratching at walls with not so much as a flinch before she finally decides maybe a more direct approach is needed.
And that is how Marilyn Vendetta, most feared specter in the ghost community for miles, ended up crouching on the end of the bed of her unfortunate roommate, waiting for her to wake up.
"Yo." She drawls in boredom, getting not so much as a snore in return from the girl, "hey asshole, get up."
She floats up to the girls face, snapping her fingers testily, "Yo, anyone in there?"
No response.
Marilyn considers just shocking her to snap her wide awake, static building in her fingers in anticipation, when the girls eyelids flutter and she shifts slightly. Her eyes blink open, and Marilyn jumps back to the foot of the bed, quite suddenly regretting this idea. The girl heaves herself upright, brushing tangled blonde hair out of her eyes and yawning loudly. She squints blearily at the clock, groaning at the absurdly early hour, and turns to get back into bed when she sees Marilyn. She stops. Suddenly very self conscious of her current pose of a startled cat, Marilyn straightens herself and falls back on her usual icy intimidation tactic, staring down the girl with electric blue eyes. The girl frantically fumbles at her bedside table for her glasses, her eyes never leaving Marilyn's, looking as though she's quite convinced she's gone crazy. She grasps at her glasses and practically shoves them at her face, turning on the bed side light as she does so and washes the bed in yellow light. Marilyn tries very hard not to flinch.
The girl blinks rapidly, disbelief slowly turning into shock as she processes the situation, and the freckles splattered on the bridge of her nose and cheeks become stark against her paling skin.
"Holy shit. You're a ghost." It comes out just over a whisper of shock, but Marilyn hears it just fine.
Marilyn gives a sudden bitterly short laugh that the girl flinches at, "Took ya long enough, you'd think with all the tricks I've been pulling ya woulda noticed earlier huh?"
"It's an old house." The girl shoots back weakly, though she seems to be recovering from her shock.
"I'm older." Marilyn ripostes. It's not quite a lie. For all she knows she could be hundreds of years old, but it makes the girl sweat and that's good enough for her.
The girl hesitates, hands twisting the duvet in thought as she bites her lip, "I mean, if I'd known there was a ghost here I would've asked before I moved in!" She glances up at Marilyn with a hesitant yet hopeful smile, "I promise I won't be any trouble though! I'm gonna be out at university most of the time and I'll be really quiet and won't break anything or move stuff you don't want me to!"
She grins at Marilyn expectantly, suddenly perky and excited as though the fact her roommate is a seriously grumpy ghost doesn't bother her at all.
Marilyn is most certainly bothered.
"I- what, no you- you can't," she stammers furiously, sparks building up in her eyes and streaking out from her finger nails, "you can't stay here!"
"Well I mean, I did kinda pay for it and stuff, so I sort of have to?" The girl's grin turns sheepish, "sorry."
"I'm a ghost!" Marilyn argues stubbornly, electricity sparking as she waves her hands in exasperation, "I ain't lettin' some bloody human in my haunting! "
"No, no, it'll be fun!" The girl retorts optimistically, "you can be my spooky ghost friend! Oh my god it'll be sooooo cool this is totally such a good idea!"
Marilyn shouts in frustration, jumping off the bed and phasing through the wall in defeat, electricity arcing in fury behind her.
"My names Cass by the way!" The girl shouts, grin still plastered on her face and looking far too excited given her situation.
Marilyn slams every door in the house as a reply.
The next day, Cass leaves a CD on when she leaves for university.
The heavy bass drumming in Marilyn's stomach is the thing that wakes her up from her nap curled in the small space between the couch and the coffee table, the shock sending her tumbling through the couch. When she scrambles back onto solid ground Cass is fiddling with the buttons on the stereo, the music lightening to a steady thrum. She smiles, petting the cat curled on the stereo, Pastel or something, Marilyn doesn't quite remember. Cass turns to unlock the door, swinging it open and hesitating.
"Just gonna leave a CD on for you!" She yells over her shoulder, as if it weren't obvious enough, "see ya when I get back!"
And then she's gone.
Marilyn simply floats for a few seconds, staring at the door in something akin to disbelief before meandering over to the stereo. Pastel eyes shoot open and he growls low in his throat. Marilyn sticks her tongue out before leaning down to the stereo. It's playing some trashy pop music she hates, the singers voice too pitchy, the melody grating, and the lyrics ridiculous, but it's the first time she's properly heard music in seven years and she can't help the sparks of excitement that fly from her eyes. A stray crackle catches Pastel's fur and bolts right through Marilyn with a hiss, but Marilyn's too caught up in her tapping to the beat to notice.
Its five hours after Cass leaves and halfway through the third playing of the album when Marilyn hears the lock turning in the door. She's sitting cross legged on thin air in front of the stereo, head bobbing to the beat, and staring completely enraptured at the stereo; exactly the same place as she was when Cass left. She turns abruptly when she hears the creaking of the floor in the hallway, Cass standing in the doorway frozen halfway through taking off her jacket. Their eyes meet, and Marilyn disappears just as Cass starts to laugh in triumph. When Cass asks thin air if she appreciated the music Marilyn vehemently replies that Cass' taste in music is terrible, and that whoever left that Fall Out Boy CD on the stereo knows what real music is and Cass should definitely take a cue from them. Cass teases that if she wanted different music she just had to ask, and if the element on the stove she's cooking rice on flares upwards and makes her trip backwards, Marilyn insists she had nothing to do with it and Cass should really be more careful in the kitchen.
When Cass brings home the newest Fall Out Boy CD, the price tag freshly scraped off, and not a single track that Cass likes herself, Marilyn finally gets the courage to ask.
"Why are you doin' this?"
It comes out much quieter and nervous than she thought it would.
Cass looks up from CD and gives Marilyn a strange look, "I'm just being nice?"
"But why?" Marilyn persists.
The freckles on Cass' noise scrunch up in confusion, "do I need a reason to be nice?" She asks, a hint of a laugh in her voice.
Yes, Marilyn thinks, you do.
Marilyn doesn't know how she never noticed them before.
After all, family photos aren't exactly an un noticeable thing to bring to a house when you move in. Or at least, so she's heard. The cooing over a person younger than you know, how much they look like their parents, all that kind of stuff Marilyn's only heard from the chats she's heard on the street. She's flown past this hallway a hundred times, knows it more than herself, but staring at the smiling proud parents hugging their baby Cass it suddenly suffocates her in its unfamiliarity.
"Those are my parents."
Marilyn jolts at the abrupt voice, whirling around to see Cass leaning in the doorway. Her lips quirk in amusement, holding Pastel more tightly to her chest as he purrs.
"I figured," Marilyn hesitates, "you look just like 'em."
Cass chuckles, moving over next to Marilyn to look at the picture in question. Marilyn only flinches a little bit.
"Got my dad's genes mostly." Cass muses while stroking Pastel absentmindedly, and then laughs, "mum never forgave him for that"
Marilyn glances back at the picture, and she has to agree. Cass has her dad's messy blonde hair and the same freckles dappled over her cheeks, even the thick rimmed glasses and the slightly chubby build. But her blue eyes are her mothers.
Something like jealousy twists in Marilyn's gut.
"Guess you don't look like either of your parents," Cass mentions, "what with the piercings and all."
Marilyn looks down and considers herself. She never really questioned how she looked before, but she supposes she does have a lot of piercings. Numerous in each ear, several eyebrow piercings, a nose stud, and even a tongue piercing. Her bright pink hair shaved into a Mohawk obviously isn't hereditary either; she may be out of the loop but she's pretty sure hair doesn't grow in pink. Her studded leather vest glints in the light of the hall, bottle caps pinned onto the lapel haphazardly. Her Union Jack t shirt flakes and fades in places, and her skinny jeans are torn at the bottoms for her scuffed red converse to poke out. Considering how long ago she guesses she was born, her fashion sense wasn't from them either. But she wonders if her milk chocolate skin is from her mother, and her bony and thin build from her father. Or if her electric blue eyes are her uncles, and her pointed nose her grandmothers. Her chest feels hollow with the weight of something that was never there and never can be, but she wants so desperately and she only realised it now. Like chains she didn't know she was living with because they'd always just been there and now they drag and scrape and leave her with a terrible aching feeling in her chest she thinks maybe she always had and just never noticed.
She doesn't feel Cass shaking her shoulders asking if she's okay, only feeling the nothing in her rib cage, and she phases away to soak in her misery, leaving Cass confused and worried. She doesn't stop looking for her for three days. Marilyn doesn't respond for all of them.
Cass is watching tv when Marilyn comes back.
She doesn't see her, but she feels the sudden chill to her right on the couch and the faint crackle of electricity in the air tickles her skin and she just knows. Pastel bristles in her lap and she strokes him to calm him down. She dares not remove her eyes from the tv for fear of frightening Marilyn away again and remains completely still. Neither of them say a word.
Marilyn is the first to speak when the ads come on.
"'m sorry." She murmurs, quiet and scared and so not her Cass feels a chill run down her spine.
"I'm the one who should apologise." Cass replies, twirling her fingers in Pastels fur.
"'S not your fault." Marilyn whispers back so quietly Cass only hears her because she's right next to her.
Pastel kneads his paws in Cass' sweater as he gets up and, much to both Cass and Marilyn's surprise, moves himself onto Marilyn's lap. She stiffens and nervous static shoots through the air, fuzzing Pastels fur, but he doesn't seem to mind. He circles around on Marilyn's thighs before settling his paws beneath his chest, resting his chin on Marilyn's knee. For a while Marilyn simply stares blankly at him, fingers twitching as if she wants to move but it far too afraid to. Cass bumps her arm gently and smiles at her reassuringly. Marilyn hesitantly strokes her fingers through Pastel's fur, her movements becoming more calm as Pastel purrs under her. The ends of her mouth twitch in something like a smile. They sit in silence for a while, Marilyn stroking Pastel in rhythmic, calm movements, and Cass subtly watching.
"You don't remember them, do you?" Cass asks cautiously.
Marilyn knows she's talking about her family , and her fingers crackle slightly, "No." She replies softly, averting her eyes from Cass.
"I'm sorry." Cass offers, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.
Marilyn doesn't reply, instead pressing her shoulder against Cass'. Cass feels the cold seeping through her shoulder and her hair buzzes with Marilyn's static, but she doesn't move. They stay like that, soaking in each other's comforting presence in silence. If Cass notices the tear run down Marilyn's cheek, she doesn't say anything.
Cass comes home an hour late every day for two weeks.
Marilyn doesn't ask because its really none of her business, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't worried. She's also been spending more time in her room when she gets home, and Marilyn swears she's hiding papers from her whenever she enters the same room. She considers just asking her what's wrong. After all, it's not like she doesn't have a reason to be worried. After the family incident they've been dancing on the edge of friendship and something entirely different, and Marilyn doesn't quite know where she stands. Nervous sparks fly from her eyes as she chews her finger nails in thought, and Cass opens the door abruptly.
"We're going out," she says, gesturing outside the door before she suddenly looks worried, "you can do that, right?"
"I-yeah, I can go," Marilyn stammers obliviously, "Where are we goin'?"
Cass grins and winks, "You'll see when we get there!"
And then she prances out the door again, and Marilyn, against her better judgement, follows her.
As it turns out, Cass is taking her to a graveyard.
Marilyn floats among the headstones, nodding to the numerous ghosts wandering around, "Remind me why we're here again?"
"Just hang on!" Cass replies, boots crunching in the snow covering the dead ground.
"Look, I know I'm a ghost 'n all," Marilyn points out, "but despite prior belief, we're not actually fans of graveyards." She winces at a ghost sitting on a gravestone with his entrails trailing onto the ground. Gross.
"We're here," Cass suddenly sounds somber, and Marilyn turns with a sarcastic remark on her teeth that crawls back into her throat and dies in her chest as she sees the gravestone.
It's old; she can tell by the rounded and dull edges from the wind and the moss crawling over it. Bottle caps are strewn around it, some so worn she can't read much on them besides a fading colour. The words are barely eligible, but she can read them clear as day.
Marilyn Anne Vendetta, 1980 - 1997. Loving sister and daughter.
She's looking at her own grave.
She must be staring for a long while, because Cass speaks up behind her.
"I looked through the records," she explains quietly, "and well, turns out your grave was here."
It takes Marilyn three tries to get words through her dry mouth, "It says sister." Is the only thing she can offer in a strangled voice.
"You had a little brother," Cass reads off a sheet of paper, "Jason. Some people tried to attack you and him in a back alley with a taser. You saved his life."
Marilyn's throat compacts in on itself, and for the first time in her death she feels the static behind her eyes recede and settle. Her fingers clench.
"That house I," Cass coughs awkwardly, "we live in, it's where you used to live. They moved out after you died."
Eyes burning and hands twitching, Marilyn reaches a hand to her mouth to hold back a sob. She feels her heart banging in her chest and she vaguely wonders if it was always there and she was just too empty to notice.
"Jason..." She whispers.
"He lives a few hours away," Cass explains, and gestures to the bottle caps strewn around the ground, "he leaves you these every month."
She glances at the bottle caps on her lapel and the ones on the ground, and she remembers, God does she remember. She remembers a brown skinned boy laughing up at her as he asks to be lifted, and his screams of joy when she obliges because she can never resist those puppy eyes. She remembers shaving his dark hair into a Mohawk "just like big sister" and his eyes lighting up when he sees himself in the mirror. She remembers taking him to the soda bar at the end of the street, blowing bubbles into her coke just to see him giggle, and him safety pinning the bottle caps onto her lapel because he loved them so much. She remembers sitting and helping him with his math homework. She remembers a dark alley and three men who wouldn't leave them alone with sparks flying from their hands, and his scream of terror, and her leaping in front of him with only his name in her head. She remembers his sobs as her body spasmed with electricity, the distant scream of a siren, and then nothing.
God, she remembers.
For the first time in seven years, she remembers.
"Why did you hide this from me?" She asks, feeling her finger tips for the first time like blood is finally pumping through them.
"Didn't want to get you excited for nothing," Cass says sheepishly, "I only found out this morning."
Marilyn turns to look at her, and she looks small and scared and apprehensive.
"Thank you." Marilyn whispers. She can't find the words to say that she's just given her a life again, that she saved her from years of brooding and loneliness, that she's never been so thankful that Cass was too stubborn to leave. All she can say is thank you. But Cass grins and Marilyn can just tell from her eyes that she understands.
"Come on," Cass giggles, dropping a bouquet of flowers on Marilyn's grave from her coat. They're bright and Marilyn hates them, but she still feels a warmth in her chest from them,"someone's got a haunting to get back to."
Marilyn follows her out of the graveyard, and takes a glance back at the gate.
And for the first time in seven years, she smiles.