That ghost girl is back, boxing me awake with her old leather gloves. I smell them just before the punch comes. I inhale their sweet earthiness and think, oh no, but never manage to wake fast enough to avoid the thump. When I sit up, rubbing whichever bit of me she’s gone for this time, she darts to the corner, all wafty white dress and see-through face. I roll my eyes at her and sigh. I used to be scared of her; nobody wants to be hit, but she’s ectoplasmic, like just setting egg white drifting off a poached egg. She doesn’t have much heft and the punches leave no marks. She shimmers a while and I wait for her to dematerialise before I can get back to sleep. I tell myself she’s a figment of my imagination, a night terror, but she’s real, long white dress, long dark hair, boxing gloves. She’s a curious sight. I try to think positive thoughts about her, flip the narrative. I name her Faith and imagine she’s part of a Victorian girl gang. They roam the streets of olde London Town and reprimand ne’er-do-wells. That painting, Gin Lane, all rollicking drunkards and wenches with heaving bosoms, was that Victorian? I imagine Faith a best friend, Quince, (what is a quince, a fruit?) and together they spar. Who’d win in a fight between them? My money’s on Quince, and I slide into sleep picturing green round fruit hanging from a wobbly branch. Then that scent, slicing into my consciousness, a mustiness, the connection of leather on my skin, I jolt awake. Faith skitters off to glow by the wardrobe. It’s tiresome in the most literal of ways.
I’m exhausted and grumpy and can’t exactly explain at work, sorry, there’s this ghost girl who likes to punch me so I’m not getting enough hours. I crackle. A hot irritation buzzes through me. Snap. Glare. I am hard and white and enclosed as colleagues speak to me. I face my computer screen and pretend to read emails. I change my password to Faith123. I google quince and discover it’s yellow not green and looks juicy and delicious but is actually tough and sour. I marvel at how fitting this is. The days pass with me longing for the comfort of my pyjamas, the soft lullaby of my pillow.
I prop myself against a fat blue cushion hoping for a visit before sleep, but she doesn’t come. I slump into a half and half state, head lolling uncomfortably and then jerking upright as if I’m napping on a train before eventually abandoning the idea and snuggling down with relief.
I smell damp boots and she lands a connection that feels harder this time. I rub my jaw and Faith floats away.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I say.
She stays silent as always, her non-body looking like a net curtain in a breeze. Shimmer. Waft. Vanish. I go to the toilet and then get back into bed wide awake and hot. I lie starfished on top of the covers and calculate exactly how many hours are left to potentially sleep before work. I remember when sleep was easy and not something I thought of as a treat. My eyes close and my breathing slows as my mind flits from thought to thought before I slide into the depths again.
The leathery aroma, the kick of the glove as it smacks against my right arm. I sit up. She glows by the dressing table.
