Disclaimer: It's all Meg Cabot's (or Jenny Carrol, YMMV) and as much as I and many others WISH we owned Jesse and Paul – I don't.
AN: Not that I'm going for pity reviews here, but this is my first fan fic…. In a loooooong time. So if any kind soul is willing to point out errors I've made so I can edit and fix, that'd be lovely. A beta'd be nice too, but I'm not THAT crazy.
The flapping of a single butterfly's wing today produces a tiny change in the state of the atmosphere. Over a period of time, what the atmosphere actually does diverges from what it would have done. So, in a month's time, a tornado that would have devastated the Indonesian coast doesn't happen. Or maybe one that wasn't going to happen, does.
(Ian Stewart, Does God Play Dice? The Mathematics of Chaos, pg. 141)
Death really sucks.
I just thought I'd confirm that for you, in case there were any doubts.
But death sucks for me more than most people because I can't truly enjoy it.
Oh no, no afterlife for Susannah Simon, she's only helped about a GAZILLION ghosts pass on, no need to pay her back, no way Jose.
So I'm one very ticked off ghost.
Father Dom can't figure it out, why I haven't moved on. I mean, I know who killed me, my family knows I loved them…
Why am I still here?
Being a Mediator was a get-to-the-afterlife-free-card.
Or so I thought.
What's a Mediator? Oh that's simple.
A Mediator is someone who talks to ghosts, helps them resolve whatever unfinished business there is so they can move on to their next stage of existence. Heaven, hell, it doesn't really matter to me, I just make sure they get GOING.
Sure, sometimes talking doesn't do it. Then me and my Brazilian exorcism book get real well acquainted all over again.
Some people have it coming.
And I have anger management issues, so sue me.
But overall, I was a pretty good Mediator, so why am I stuck here, in this bizarre punishment.
It really is punishment you know. Only Father Dom can see me, and a Catholic priest is not exactly king of the social scene. God, it really sucks, being able to see, and hear everything from your old life, and being completely unable to interact. To be right beside the people you love, and be unable to touch them, to sooth them. To do anything.
So I was really starting to think that I maybe was in Hell, and you know, this is my own private purgatory, when HE came in.
I raked my eyes up and down, trying to take in the visual buffet that was this man. I'd taken to spending most of my lonely afterlife in the only place that felt comfortable in this stupid town, my dorky room. I loved sitting in the window seat and reading, even now, when if someone walked in all they would see is a floating book. Heh. I live on the edge.
Or not, since I don't technically live.
Ugh. I hate my afterlife.
Anyways, back to the moment. They guy was sinfully good looking, tall, maybe 6'3, with dark hair, and equally dark eyes, and beautiful muscles that were shown off in his glorious muscle tee, and -
Those gorgeous eyes I was describing a moment ago? The ones that were like two dark chocolate pools, begging me to drown in their velvet depths –
Shut up. YOU try not eating while everyone else gets to, and see how YOU handle it.
Yeah, THOSE eyes?
They were staring at me. Not through me. At me.
STARING. AT. ME.
You'll excuse me if I was a little freaked out, for as I'm sure you know, most people don't see ghosts. In fact, the only people that have, as far as I know, are Father Dom and me. It was painful at first, but I slowly got used to the fact that Mum and Andy would walk through me from time to time if I wasn't careful, that Doc completely ignored me when I was yelling at him about his stupid girlfriend cheating on him, and that try as I might, I could NOT punch Dopey in my current state.
So for the first time since I had died, someone LOOKED at me.
And what did I do in all my maturosity?
I stuck my tongue out at him.
Stop looking at me like that, I wanted to know if he could really see me, or if it was some weird fluke. And if it wasn't a fluke, and he actually COULD see me…
Well, life could be worse than sharing your room with this guy, ESPECIALLY if I was right, and he is a Mediator.
Because that whole talking to ghosts thing?
Also a touching ghosts thing.
Sometimes a spirit wouldn't move on, and I'd have to get Jackie Chan on their ass righteous.
Like I said, they had it coming.
But I doubt I'd be getting beaten up by this guy.
Oh no, I think there'd be a lot of rolling around, perhaps some sheets, definitely no clothing so I could see what had to be marvelous abs-
Oh no, he raised his eyebrow at me.
Father Dom is so going to kill me after confession.