This is a short 5 chapter story that I'm gonna be trying to get out of my system before I go back to school because, from then on, I'm gonna be working my ass off and I'm afraid I don't have plans to be updating B+E right now, although I do have one more chapter I could do before school begins... but we shall see. In the mean time, enjoy this babe! :D

Summary: Ichigo can see ghosts and Grimmjow just so happens to be one.

You'll be the Death of Me

I have bright orange hair like a traffic cone, a father so retarded he really ought to be contained and sedated, and the annoying ability to see stuff which is actually supposed to be dead.

Funnily enough I have ever only really lost sleep over the first two issues.

Firstly – my hair. I don't have a problem with it; in fact, I am quite fond of it. It keeps my head warm and stops me from being bald, so I think I'm sort of obligated to respect my hair. I really don't have anything against it.

Sadly, the rest of the world has other ideas.

You would have thought it would get old, you know? Kinda like the latest TV show or Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards; things just get over used and over talked about, and so they gradually become less popular. But there is one thing which people seem to find interesting 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.

My hair.

I don't think people realise how sad they look when they gap at me in wonder. Random people in the street... ok, I'll cut them a tiny bit of slack, but there are people who I go to school with and see everyday who still can't seem to grasp the fact that, yes - my hair is a slightly bizarre shade of ginger.

But not only do they gape like mindless fuckwits, they also ask stupid questions.

No, I don't dye it and yes, it is real and no, it's not a fucking wig!

God almighty, give me strength!

If you really knew me then you'd know that I'm not the sort of person to go seeking attention, so why the hell would I intentionally dye my hair a neon shade of orange? But even my close friends don't seem to get it and every once in a while, when things get exceptionally boring in school, they begin a campaign to try and get me to confess to using some sort of foreign hair dye to get it such an outrageous colour.

It's just the way I am; I can't help it. My mother always taught me to be proud of who I am and I will try to do that till the day I die... if people would just - GET THE FUCK OFF MY BACK AND LEAVE MY POOR HAIR ALONE!


The second thing which drives me loopy with anger is my dad. Don't get me wrong, I love the tosser to bits, but the amount of times he has embarrassed me in public is a few too many to forgive.

Like the time he drove the ambulance we use for the clinic into school (sirens and lights going absolutely mental) waving a pair of my boxers and screaming that he had found some clean underwear for me to wear (there were none in my draw that morning so I just turned the ones I was wearing inside out).

But really.

Did the entire student body of Karakura high school and approximately 72 faculty member need to know that?

I don't think so, somehow.

Oh, and there was the time when I was 13 (and highly underdeveloped) that he told virtually every single person who came into the clinic for nine days straight that I had grown my first armpit hair and was now a man.

So God, err... Could I have that strength now, please?

But the final thing – having the ability to see ghosts – well... ok, its freakin' weird, but it IS possible to ignore it. If I pretend that I don't see them, then they don't realise I can see them and so life goes on smoothly and undisturbed.

Until one day, someone flew through the air, missing my face by about half an inch, and landed in a recycling bin.

I knew instantly something was very abnormal about this occurrence; for starters...

Well, people flying through the sky and landing in bins; it's a little self explanatory, isn't it?

So I stood my ground with my friends as we walked across the school yard towards to gate, crushing the urge to see if the person in the cardboard recycling dumpster was ok.

I tried not to look over to much, I tried not to fidget (a habit when I'm nervous), I even tried to actually pay attention to what Tatsuki and Keigo were arguing about, but...

"What're you looking at, Kurosaki-kun?"


I turned to offer a reassuring smile to Inoue.

"Oh, nothing." I spoke a little too quickly and she seemed to pick up on it. I cursed myself for being so obvious. Inoue quirked her brow and looked even more curiously at the bin I had been trying to avert my eyes from.

But then Keigo and Tatsuki's argument turned violent as she punched him in the mouth and he staggered into poor (but nosy) Inoue, nearly knocking her off her feet. Ishida caught her before I could and she smiled up at him gratefully.

He provided a good enough distraction and Inoue didn't talk to me again as we continues walking. When I saw that all of my friends were busy with each other I risked another quick glance at the bin.

When I turned my head I nearly shit myself.

There, one leg swung over the side of the bin ready to climb out, was maybe one of the hottest and most peculiar people I have ever seen.

Sure, he had an angry sort of unkempt look about him but his hair were such an unnatural blue I couldn't tear my eyes away. He was wearing a tight black long-sleeved shirt and dark, tatty jeans which clung to his long legs. Where he had rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt I saw strong forearms which gripped the side of the bin as he hauled himself up and over.

His expression was one of frustration and I heard him cussing from across the school yard.

Then he noticed me looking at him.

I realised his eyes were as bright as his hair as gaped at me, his face collapsing in surprise.

"Y-you can see me?" He asked incredulously.


I tried to escape so quickly that my body had begun running before my head had realised and I ended up falling flat on my face, not quite why I was suddenly on the floor.



My friends came to my rescue, pulling me to my feet, but not before I cast one final apprehensive look in the direction of the bin.

There he was, perched on the side of it as if he was sitting atop a throne, not a bin meant for recycling cardboard. He has his arms folded across his chest; his head cocked to the side. He was smirking at me like some demon eyeing up a tasty snack and I felt my stomach lurch with foreboding as he opened his mouth and burst out laughing; a mad cackle which made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I walk home on unsteady legs feeling sick to my stomach.

Shit, shit, shit...

He was a fucking ghost! He's dead! Not to mention he now knows that I can see him. Oh god, I'm going to be stalked, aren't I?

I see them everywhere, a lot more than I ever let on. When I was little it was difficult to tell the living from the dead, not to mention my mother taught me to be extra polite and not to ignore people. It was weird and surreal talking to the old man who has just died in dad's clinic, asking him if he needed anything or if there were any errands he wanted me to run at his old house.

Thinking back, it really wasn't that bad. The ghosts were mainly elderly and wanted me to feed their cats until the relatives dropped by or to tell their family where the will was hidden. Granted, it was kind of disturbing to see kids my age who had died, coming to me and asking for help, but they never hung around for long. I'd just go to sleep, wake up, and the ghosts I had helped were gone, replaced by new ones with new problems.

In fact, I think I remember it being kind of fun. People in school thought I was weird, talking to myself and such, but I didn't care. I had ghosts hovering over my shoulder during exams, whispering answers; they'd tell me secrets and look out for me. I admit I felt a little bit special.

Once a ghost led me into a field and told me to dig.

When I asked her what the hell I was digging for, she confessed a story. It reminded me of Romeo and Juliet.

She told me that her lover and her had agreed to run away together to escape their prejudiced families. They had stored and saved and slaved to earn enough money to build a life together and they hid it there in the field so that no one would find it and when they were ready they could creep away without being noticed.

But one day her lover disappeared.

She had continued on with her life, marrying another man and having his children. She had seen her children grow up and nursed her husband in his old age, but she herself had never been able to gather her courage and dig up the tin.

Because, she mused sadly, if there was no money in the tin then it meant that the man she loved had run away and taken their hard earnt money for himself.

She couldn't bear to think of him as that sort of person so she let sleeping dogs lie and carried on with her life, trying to forget him.

But now she was dead and had nothing to lose; her curiosity had driven her almost mad with the question...

What if the money was still there?

If it was... she said she had no idea what that might mean. She said she might look for him in the next life and find out what had happened.

The whole time my mind was telling me foul play had gotten him out of the picture but the ghost was holding back tears as if she already suspected, so I kept my thoughts to myself as I dug.

The ground was tough and filled with small stones which I kept scraping with the spade. It certainly wasn't one of the easiest thing's I've ever done. I got blisters, but as I picked them (what kind of 11-year-old doesn't pick blisters?) days later, I realised it might have been worth it because of what I found buried in the soil.

It was a Celebrations tin, but it looked vintage and ancient.

She was crying and trembling as I prised open the rusty lid.

Inside were photos, love letters, a bottle cork and a thick, battered envelop, secured with a small, unbroken wax seal.

I heard a soft sigh.

He loved me. I wasn't abandoned.

When I looked up, the ghost had gone.

I put the lid back on and placed the tin back into the ground.

It wasn't my place to take the money.

When I got home I admit I was shocked to not see a blue haired man sat on my bed.

I frowned. Wasn't he going to pester me to death? Didn't he want my help?

Guess not... I mused lightly, kicking off my school uniform and tugging on some jeans and a shirt with 'THE FOALS' stamped on the front.

I mooched about the house for a few hours, tidying my dad's bedroom (because he is an incompetent twat) and helping Yuzu make a flan for pudding.

All throughout the evening, the blue haired man didn't make an appearance.

I thought I was safe.

I was wrong.

I was in the shower when it happened.

As an afterthought I suppose I should have been grateful that I wasn't taking a dump when he appeared, but at the time, that thought wasn't around to make the situation seem less embarrassing.

"Your pubes are orange too. Guess you're not a fake, then."

I froze when I heard the voice.

I turned my head, very slowly, inch by inch, until I saw him.

He was grinning at me; his face pushed up against the glass of the shower cubicle so he looked sort of demented. There was a pregnant pause where I just stared at him as he happily rubbed his cheek across the glass making a loud, wet squeaking sound.

I screamed, the blue-haired guy screamed; then my sisters started screaming downstairs - then my dad burst into the bathroom, also screaming, and waving an umbrella to fight off the supposed attacker/rapist/reason his 17 year old son was screaming like a girl.

Soooooo... what do you think? Review? :D