There is a ghost living in my neighborhood, if you can call that living. She stumbles from corner to corner, often hanging from someone's arm, a different someone every time.
Her hair is bleached blonde with dark roots. It is matted into a shoulder-length shell due to all the unwashings. Sometimes she clips a flithy red bow into the back of it.
It's hard to say if she was a beauty when she was still alive, because she doesn't look anyone in the eye. She twitches and jerks. Her face is a blur. But you can make out ruddy cheeks and smears of mascara and what I think are sea green eyes.
"I've never seen her not like that," a shopkeeper once said. "I heard she used to be a school teacher. She graduated from college."
I can never make out exactly what she's saying, but I can tell she's always trying to convince people to give her things. The streets keep her trim and she's young, so she remains suspended in a constant haze, not yet knowing the bone-crushing bottom.
Once I saw her giving head on a bus stop bench. I recognized the red bow.
I wonder who she kissed when she was still alive. I wonder if she ever had her heart broken before love stopped mattering.
I have heard her wailing at night.
She is haunted. And she walks the streets among us, and we cower in fear.