How Ghosty Died

You fell down a flight of steps. Your heart gave out. You lay there dead at the bottom of the steps, a medic brought you back, and then, Ghosty, later in the hospital. Then I killed you.

At the hospital, I saw the blood in your ear, and I wanted to lick it out like a cat. My cat has a chemical burn under his ear that is always rough. Now when I rub him there, Ghosty, I think of you. Your body was burned. That caked blood on your face was burned.

Your wife gave me the ring you wore every day with the inscription, Who Dares Wins. “He wanted you to have this,” she said. The words are rubbed almost illegible. I never saw your thumb rubbing over Who rubbing over Dares rubbing over Wins. I watched the nurse use hand lotion to pull it off your dead finger. She slipped it onto mine, still covered in lotion. I didn’t take it off or wash it for days. I don’t rub it, but I read it, wearing Who Dares down with my eyes.