Zero
If my hair looks like bright green seaweed, it’s because that’s exactly what it is. My eyes, a pair of abalone shells, polished blue by sand. Teeth, two rows of pebbles.
And my skin is made of wax.
I spent a very long time collecting the wax, I’ll have you know, from their burning candles. And it was an extremely hard thing to do, too. I had to steal it, drip by drip, whenever they weren’t watching. In the darkest parts of the night, I would whisk the wax away, little by little. And if one of them had ever bothered to glance up, they might very well have seen the glistening droplets that I was beckoning dance on the air, slip over rotting beams and disappear through a gap in the iron ceiling. But nobody ever looked up. Nobody noticed.
I made sure of that.
It took years to shape the wax into my sort-of- odd-looking head. My skinny neck and awkward shoulders. Arms and legs, which if I’m honest, are kind of knobbly.
Fine . . . so I’m not perfect looking.
But as skinny and awkward and knobbly as my wax body might be, it’s still a million times better than having no body at all. at was the absolute worst. Maybe some ghosts enjoy walking through walls and being invisible – not me. I never wanted any of that.
I never asked to be a kid ghost.
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