Little Miss Babysitter

-- 29 -- (Nate's P.O.V)

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He sneaked out from behind one of the far towers of books, his shoulders pale and bony, his face floury and coarse. The outer edges of his being were blurred into a mist, almost as if he was there but not truly. He lacked the life-like quality that human beings possessed. He was almost like a shadow.

"Nate, someone's there?" Ela spoke beside me, her voice small and fragile. Her hand was woven taut in mine, and I traced the curves of her palm with my fingertips. "Is it Rosie?"

"No. It's not Rosie." I whispered back, giving her a small squeeze.

He was in plain view, now, his grayed hair untamed and wiry. His moccasins were rather large on his sparse ankles, and they made a hollow, padded echo with every step that he took.

"Nate, what--"

I raised a finger to my lips, keeping my eyes trained on the flimsy, watery reflection of a grandfather that I used to have. The blue sockets of his eyes stared back at me, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He floated over to a dresser, and examined the cracked picture frame that resided on top. It was a picture of Rosie and me when I was about 11 years old. I think we went to Six Flags, or something like that, 'cause I had a gigantic hat on and the biggest smile you'd ever see. One of my front teeth was missing. As well, Rosie had a pretty smile on her face, too.

He dragged a finger across our painted faces, his white eyelashes fluttering as he blinked. "You two really were beautiful."

Ice coated my muscles, as I froze in place. Everything washed away, except for me and the phantom of my grandfather.

"It's been a while since I've seen your mother smile like that." He sighed through a clattering set of gray teeth, and wound his bathrobe around his tiny body. He glanced back at me, his gaze almost skeptical. "I guess she has nothing worth living for, eh?"

I swallowed hard, and nodded faintly, attracting the dim attention of the girl by my side. Her eyes were white and crazed, something inside them pushing me out of her thoughts. She probably thought I was a lunatic. And the sad thing is that I wouldn't blame her in the slightest. I've been to those meetings: I know it's not normal to see your grandfather's dead spirit linger throughout the dead corridors of your attic.

"You keep her safe for me, you hear?" He chuckled, a raspy cough igniting from his chest. "She's downhill now, but in twenty years from now, she'll be dead jus' like me, and you'll be wishin' you coulda redone e'erything you e'er did. For her, with her, 'tis all the the same."

His urban soliloquoy was interrupted by a fit of loud hacks, and he dabbed his bloody chin with a handkerchief.

"Throat cancer, the little devil. That's what took me out." He swabbed the inside of his cheek, pulling his blue lips in a tight line. "Don't get too comfortable with a cigar, that's my advice to you."

His image faded from the room, a fine mist travelling through the cracked open window and into the frozen midnight air.

"Nate...?" Ela peeped from my side, her big eyes wandering mine for any explanation. "What the heck just happened? Did you zone out or something?"

I shook my head sharply, and brought a distressed hand through my hair. If my grandpa wanted to tell me something, he would, wouldn't he? I have a fairly good understanding that everything I see is all in my imagination. Although, everything seems real. I don't want to put too much thought into it. After seeing A Beatiful Mind starring Russell Crowe in mental health class, I'm not quite sure what to think anymore. 

"Did.. Did you see something?" She finally asked, the words crisp on her tongue. I looked down at her, and offered a small, frayed smile. Placing a gentle kiss on her temple, I brought her in my arms, and comfort swam throughout my body. All problems seemed to vanish, and I instantly forgot what had been on my mind just a moment before.