Ghostly Urges

"Alex," a familiar voice called down the hall, "Your father and I are going to bed". The familiar face of my mother appears at my door. She leans against the frame. I can see her from the corner of my eye, I can feel her pity as she watches me. I sit on the edge of my bed hunched over my phone, the small room only illuminated by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. I tilt my head slowly up, forcing a weak smile across my lips. Her body language changes instantly, her muscles tense and her gentle pity deepens. The puffiness in my cheeks and around my eyes perfectly frame my bloodshot eyeballs.

"Oh honey-" she starts, "Do try to get some sleep." She turns, walking slowly down the hall and turning into my parent's room. I let out a deep sigh, shifting in place. My eyes scan the wall lazily, when they catch on the calendar, my eyes well as I read the current day and month.

It's already been 6 weeks since he went in the ground. Almost 9 weeks since he died. I can still feel him, even here, in this tomb to my childhood. I remember the times we'd come home for Christmas, or week we'd watched the dogs when my parents took a vacation to Mexico three years ago. The heat of his breath, the tickle of his chin on the back of my neck, the reverberating chainsaw snore every time he fell asleep.

A tear leaks from my eye, running down my puffy cheek and stopping against the comforter of the double bed. I breathe in deeply, trying to center myself. Trying my best to do anything other than what I desperately know I need to do. My hand flops lifelessly against my tummy.

"No more. I can't keep going back." I mumble to myself, the hand on my tummy begins to rub back and forth against the fabric. I can't go. I need to stay.

I can't go.

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I let the car door close behind me with a dull thud. The gentle amber light slowly fades, leaving only the sickly glow of the subtle lamps that line the stone walkways. So much stone I think as I step forward slowly. The path was flanked on either side with rows of solid granite headstones, each adorned with the names and dates of generations of traumatic and gentle endings. I pull my hoodie tighter around me, the fog that slips from between my lips with each breath confirming the cold that surrounds me. The Ugg boots and pajama bottoms are not my best look, add the rough cotton black t-shirt, ill-fitting grey zip-up hoodie, and my greasy messy hair and you get the wardrobe of a woman who's beyond caring what others see in her.

I follow the path I know so well. I hardly even have to think about it, my legs know where to go, my feet know where each puddle and dirt clod lies. My brain replays memories I'd held onto tightly. The feeling of tightening my dress on our wedding day. The first vacation we took as husband and wife. Trying for our first child. As these well word memories grow thin, it remembers memories I'd tried to forget. Our first fight. Texts from his ex. The doctor's office where he confirmed our worst fears. The sterile light of the police station. The buzz that overtook my brain when they asked me to ID him. The scream that echoed in the halls.

At some point in my walk down memory lane, tears had begun streaming down my face. I sobbed quietly as I made the last turn. My feet grew heavier and heavier as I approached the site I know so well. As I reach I, my knees drop to the stone, the weight on my mind pulling me down. The funeral. The wake. It all hangs on my shoulders as I reach the ground.

I don't speak. I don't move. My eyes retracing the simple relief of his name and the date he died. I read the simple engraving, then read it again. As I read the text for the either or ninth time I feel a strange breeze. A gust of sorts, warm and moist air blowing in from the darkness. A sweet scent fills my nose as I breathe in. I can feel the warm air swirling gently around me like standing above an exhaust vent on a cold day. The sting of the air that had nipped at my cheeks fades. As I breathe the air in I feel a sort of twinge deep in my belly. A gentle hum emanates from deeper, darker places of my mind. I feel things. Deep aching from within. I haven't had any sexual urges since Daniel had died, I've hardly eaten or drank, but now- now I feel that same stirring I used to feel when I cuddled up to him, running my fingers through his chest hair as he talked about his day.

My butt settles on my heels, the breeze shifts slightly, blowing against and through my thin pajama bottoms. I breathe deeply, drinking in the sweet smell as the hum in my mind grows louder. The twinge in my belly grows and begs to be resolved.

I know it's wrong. It's twisted and depraved, but I haven't felt much besides darkness in weeks. I can feel my brain at war with itself as I start to cave. I place a hand on either thigh, my breathing deepens. The breeze accelerates and swirls with renewed vigor as my hand slides slowly up my thigh, as it reaches my crotch, I slide it over slowly, placing my finger against the outer lips of my pussy on the outside of my pajamas.

I close my eyes deeply as I begin to rub, gently, up and down along my pussy lips. Each touch feels enhances, like my fingers are electric and my pussy is desperate for touch. It feels like I've been teased for hours, as the air swirls around me. My hair flutters and bounces with the gusts, which become even stronger as I apply more pressure, pushing my lips apart slightly through the soft fabric.

Each stroke of my finger sent a bolt of lightning through me lighting up my nerves and tensing my muscles. I rub harder, and a little faster feeling the warm moisture of my dripping wet pussy beginning to seep through the light fabric. My jaw hangs open as the hum in my mind continues to grow louder.

Then all at once my eyes snap open. The familiar ceiling of my childhood bedroom. I reach a hand up, rubbing my temple idly as I start to pull myself upright. My hand feels cool and sticky to the touch. I pull my hand away and look at it in the darkness.

I can just make out the familiar outline of my hand. I rub my fingers together, the friction is wrong. I can feel my heart start beating as I turn, my hand grabbing for the bedside lamp. I miss the switch, my grasping becoming more desperate as I fumble for the switch.

The sharp click of the switch sounds like relief as the room is flooded with gentle yellow light. That's when I see what had made the friction wrong.

My hand is completely caked in dirt and grime up to my elbow. I pull the hand away from the light, turning it and looking at my palm. Not only were there layers of dirt and filth, but small bits of leaf, grass, and pebbles that appeared to be sticking on by some sort of tree sap.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch site of my left breast. A dirty brown hand print catches my eye. I look down, pulling back the covers and revealing my tummy and loins are similarly caked in dirt and muck. My heart beats faster, as I try desperately to think back. Had I dreamed the graveyard? Had I blacked out? What was all this dirt?

I turn my head towards the window as a gentle breeze blows in ruffling the curtain. I scan the window sill for a moment before something catches my eye.

A small brown hand print all the way at the top of the window, where I don't think I could possibly have reached.