You'd Look Better as a Ghost

by Joanna Wallace

“Claire,” one of them says, “like I was saying, I’m so sorry about your dad. He was a good man. One of the best.” One of the best? What a curious accolade. Out of how many? The whole world? This room?

If I wanted to surround myself with needy, self-pitying morons wittering on about their feelings, I’d join Facebook.

“I think we all need to take a few deep breaths. Let’s try to remember, each of you is starting out on an individual journey of grief and the one thing I know about grief . . .” One thing? Shouldn’t she know more than that? Isn’t she running this group?

“I’m Jemma.” She taps her name badge, and a scurry of words stampede from my brain to mouth. I know you’re called Jemma, you total freak! You introduced yourself to all of us before your monumental meltdown. Plus, you’ve got your name stuck on that hideous tracksuit.

“I think you might be a little confused,” I say kindly, destroying yet another pause that was no doubt intended to be dramatic. “I’m not disputing that I killed Lucas, I’m disputing that he was your friend.”

Hahaha ok that ate 😝

“Please get in,” she says, “I don’t know this area at all. You can direct me to the nearest coffee shop.” She smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer.” Returning the smile, I get in the car and wonder how many serial killers in the history of serial killing have used that line. I might try it.

Beneath all the blackmailing, arrogance and inability to click on the correct email address, he probably wasn’t a bad person.

Hahahaha she is never going to let that email go

If we get stuck in here and people start using my oxygen, I am definitely killing that kid first.