Eternal Life (Tentative Title)

Eternal life, one would think, is merely a myth, isn't it? Something from the realms of fairytales, bedtime stories, campfire tales; told in the dark to set the heart in motion. When one is young, under the covers, surrounded by sleep, fearing the demons and the bumps in the night, not a thought passes what it would be like on the other side; to be that monster feared by children and hunted by the superstitious. No one does, and, over time, not a thought to what lurks in the dark enters the thoughts of the every day folk. They move, unawares, throughout the city, cautious, but oblivious to the dangers of the streets. They don't see what I do, and they most certainly don't see me.

The life of I have now is not one I regret. Some people might find this hilarious, but I can, with almost certainty, say that I'm content. I watch, I observe: the life I had before not much different, really. My first life, my human life, was filled with the same mundanely tedious business, the same observances, the same mindless wandering, ignored, overlooked, disregarded. It was comfortable, my afterlife; or it was until the crash.

The train station: the revolving door of the countryside. When I was human I came here often, watching the trains come and go as they do, bringing in people of uninteresting qualities, of outstanding traits. I liked to read them, ponder where they were going, why they were here, where they were from; for fun I'd profile one or two, giving them a job, a home, a family. Weekends were filled with trips to the station, my home away from home. I didn't know why I was there, only that I liked it. It wasn't the trains, I knew that for sure, and I suspected it was simply because it was the closest I ever got to getting away, to leaving my tiny town and growing tall in the brightest of cities. I dreamt of Oslo as I sat on the bench, trains screaming, screeching, blistering to a stop, or sometimes I thought of heading farther north to Sweden, Stockholm, or east into the cold fielded lands of Russia. I pictured, I envisioned; I never stepped off the platform.

I used to think to myself that I would wait. Wait for the right moment, the cash, the perfect person; I had my whole life ahead of me, didn't I? I did need to rush off. 'Save your money, you'll go when you're ready,' I used to tell myself, tell my reflection in the mirror as if one of my customers at the travel agency. But 29 years old and none of that mattered anymore. Money? What could I do with money? People? Hadn't spoken to anyone in years. Time? Well, that I definitely have plenty of. How I use it, though, is more restricted than you first might think.

For the millionth time since my death I lifted my feet for boarding. People were swarming through me, giving me shivers as though their solid bodies were nothing but a cool breeze. If I had any breath in my body, I would be panting with effort at this point, really; no matter how hard I tried, my feet wouldn't leave the platform. It was like each one, despite my current and ever present form weightless and empty, were fitted with lead. It took all my will to even push my hand into the body of the train; telling me there was no way my body was following.

I growled with frustration, the grisly sound merely blending with the huffing train, smoke coiling in the air, snaking through the sky above the silver metal body, tracing it's path backwards as if looking for something it's master had lost; you could hardly see the tracks where it searched, relentlessly foiling any chance of scenery for the station attendants watching carefully for anything unusual; anything like me.

But this time, like last time, they didn't hear me, they didn't see me; unlike last time, they had the very easy excuse that they just purely couldn't. No one could hear me, no one could see me; I'm over it, really I am. You get used to it after a while. Which is why it was more than a shock when something quite solid shoved me back, sent me flailing to the ground, a non-feeling absence from the pale grey stone met my body, light as air. I huffed none the less, looking up in bewilderment.

Glaring down at me, hoisting a small carry-on bag, it was him: the one who started it all, the one who could see, though I didn't know it yet. "Watch it, pal. You have to wait like everyone else."

And so he would be right, if I wasn't so very dead. The dead don't need to wait; or they don't normally have to.

It was a toss-up between continuing my shocked expression and asking him something- anything – to see if it happened again. Could he hear me? Could he really? Well, he could certainly see me if his irritated scowl told me anything, but I just couldn't seem to wrap my mind around it; it wasn't normal, it wasn't right.

A few strangled whispers escaped my lips and the man in front of me was being prodded from behind to move along. There was obviously some confusion as to what was stopping the man from stepping off the train; it was a slight relief, then, that some things always stayed the same.

The man, lifting one hand, a fat Discman in his palm, flicked back his bangs, which were falling out of place, and his brown eyes squinted at me as though he thought I was stupid; an expression, I assure you, I was used to by now.

"Well?" He looked to where I was sprawled like a grounded air balloon, flicking his eyes to the side, telling me to move.

"I-" I choked, lifting myself from the ground, having no trouble as I nearly floated half the time anyway, backing out the of way, letting him pass, followed by a mass of agitated people worried for their cabs and their luggage.

He passed me in a hurry, the words "bloody foreigners" muttered under his breath as he headed straight for the exit. It seemed like he knew where he was going, and his comment suggested he was from here; it was clear enough that he had no patience for the crowds either, suggesting he did this often, travelling, touching base at the station; he wouldn't be so anxious otherwise. Besides, I'd watched a hundred of his kind in my day; I could tell a mile off.

That was when curiosity struck me, my eyes following his retreating form until he was no longer in sight. Frantic thoughts passed: should I follow him? It couldn't hurt. But first… I looked to my right, putting out my hand into the path a woman with a screaming baby. My hand passed through both of them and relief flooded through me. The assurance was all I needed, and with that I found myself wandering through people, the main wall, exiting onto the main street beyond the station. Here, there were even more people, the ones in from the train mixing and colliding with them as they struggled with heavy baggage or squabbling children, and the people on the street didn't seem to mind, accepting the route they decided to take inevitably involved being smacked around a bit by tourists and their accomplices.

Of course I didn't have this problem. The problem I did have, however, was this: my target was gone.

-

It took days waiting by the train for his face to turn up again. In fact, I didn't recognize him when he did; his hair was now cut short, unveiling more of a naturally unblemished face, one you would see at the front of a crowd, one meant for the eyes. He knew it, too, I could tell as I followed him silently, floating on air, as he shoved through the masses, grunting and muttering, dramatically cursing as if simply walking through the street was the bane of his existence; he gave the impression of confidence, walking tall, chin raised, legs striding solidly against the ground in a way that almost made me jealous.

It appeared he lived close; we arrived at his place in no less than ten minutes, tops. It was the opposite direction from the one I used to come in to get to the trains, so the area was unfamiliar. The buildings were well taken care of, not wood, but stone. Most were single family homes, but at the end of the block, beside a small park speckled with tiny children's head, a small apartment complex stood, looking more like a three piece collection of Lego blocks, compact and gleaming a newly-painted white.

I stood back behind a cluster of bushes, watching cautiously through the twigs and leaves as the he opened the glass door with a set of jingling key, their metallic tingle crossing our distance and breaching my ears.

So intently was I watching him, performing a stake out that was so commonly unnecessary in my current condition, a mother and her child on a peddle car nearly scared me out of my wits.

I shook myself out, ignoring the voice snickering over the irony in my head, then stepped towards the door of the building as if approaching a wild horse; as if the heavy stonework would take off suddenly if I weren't careful.

The space from the outside looked larger than it actually was when you entered the lobby, but the rest of it- the community courtyard at the centre, the donut of apartments around it- were rather generous in size.

I ghosted from place to place, taking in the scheme of things, passing the few people present in the building. At one time I walked passed a woman baking in her kitchen, the red of the walls smearing an eerie glow against her pink cheeks, and she startled as though she heard the sounds of my hard-heeled shoes. Merely spooked, could be the term you could use when describing humans who, occasionally, "sensed your presence" as they would describe it on television or in one of those crap spiritual guides people pick up for nothing at the thrift store. I'd more likely say they're perceptive: that much closer to noticing you than others. It was as simple as that, and it wasn't actually that uncommon to find people who perk up when you get a little too close for comfort. Usually these people were alone- it wasn't often someone notices you when others are around- so you could put it down to simply their animal instinct of being on guard, or even that they expected something. Or it could simply be that it was a coincidence that they jumped at that particular moment. There were several theories, but I like the thought that maybe, just maybe, there's more to people than meets the eye.