The sound of a cup breaking against the wall broke the silence. Then one more, then another one, then one after that. Then came the plates and the pots. It was all done in an eerie silence otherwise.
He just went and broke them. Black hair sticking to his forehead, stubble breaking out from his unhealthy looking skin. He was young, 24 to be more exact, looking both famished and sleep deprived and he did this stereotypically female hysteric act with a hollow look in his dark brown eyes, yet - as the pile of porcelain shards by the wall grew, emotions started to surface.
"Fuck you, how dare you! You piece of shit!" He was screaming at an empty armchair.
"How could you!?" Tears appeared in his eyes and his hands halted.
"I trusted you." He whispered, strength draining from his legs as he slumped down.
Then he froze and his earlier expression faded. "That's it!" He got up in haste and ran past a floating, semi-transparent girl, who had been watching him, right into the next room. He paid her no notice, like she wasn't there.
He ran over to his keyboard, starting to madly type away, repeating the same scene he had just acted out in intricate detail.
The girl floated over to behind the him and read the screen with her eyes. Her hair was waist long and black, same as his, but her eyes were blue. She made no sound, just curiously observed.
"I get it now." "So that's why", the writer muttered phrases along these lines as his characters lived on the page.
That mad typing came to a sudden halt, however, when loud bangs could be heard from the door.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue and got up. The girl floated after him.
Two policemen awaited behind the door. Both of a sturdy build and incomparably healthier looking next to the writer. One had ash blonde hair and steel colored eyes, a rather pleasant face, while other was bald and reminded of a pro wrestler - a type one would normally avoid angering.
"Come in," the writer said with a rather done expression, not phased in the least by either of these men who could undoubtedly snap him like a twig if it came to it.
The policemen exchanged glances not taking him up on the offer right away.
The writer sighed. "I ordered a porcelain set and I broke it while acting out a scene. My neighbors probably reported the noise and called you to come, so you probably won't go away till you see for yourself that no other person was involved or harmed, am I wrong?"
The policemen exchanged glances once again.
"It is before eleven pm, so this level of noise shouldn't have been against any regulations."
"I'll check," the better looking policeman gave in. Making a small nod at the bald one, almost as if gesturing that 'you have my back'.
Both policemen were on their guard, while the blondie walked through the rather small apartment - there were only three rooms, the living room included the kitchen counter, there was a dining table that still had a few pieces of the porcelain set remaining, a sofa and two armchairs by the wall, the bedroom turned out to have no bed, just a table with a laptop on it, and bathroom was small and had barely crammed in a shower cab, next to the toilet. There was barely a trace of one person living there as it was, two would be a stretch.
"Why did you do that?" the policeman asked five minutes in, seeing that there was no evidence disproving the things the man had said first. There was even a box from a well known delivery service by the floor - it did seem like the set had just been delivered only to be broken by this man.
"I don't have an obligation to reply," the writer said with the same annoyed expression.
The policeman sighed. "Thank you for cooperating in either case," he said (without that invitation it wouldn't have been possible to simply enter this apartment and check) and headed towards the door. The other policeman nodded at the first and they both went downstairs.
The writer didn't bother to lock the door and headed back to his desk. At first his expression showed irritation, but as he resumed typing and his fingers gained pace, his expression started to change.
The floating girl reached out and locked the door, then floated back to the writer's side, continuing to read what he was typing.
"Wasn't her name Rosanne?" the girl muttered as she kept reading. The name of the heroine had changed for some reason.
"It is, in the first chapter she lied about her name, so," the writer nonchalantly replied to the ghost's words.
The girl's eyes widened and she looked at the writer in shock, aghast. "Y-y.."
Then the writer facepalmed. "Shit. Pretend I didn't hear you and said nothing."
The girl shut her mouth, her expression changed to an upset one. "No way! Hey… you've been pretending I don't exist for four days-- you came to my house and--"
"It's not your house," the writer replied. "I'm renting it and you are freeloading."
"But you've been ignoring me even so!" The girl crossed her arms.
"I'll gladly continue to do that," the writer said, no remorse in his voice.
"What--no, that's just…" Her eyebrows drooped.
"Ugh--" the writer opened one of the drawers by the table and took out three books. "These come before the one I'm writing, read them and let me write in peace. The deadline is in two days." He looked at the ghost with a tired expression.
"You'll talk with me after?" She asked. Even though her expression seemed giddy from seeing the books.
He sighed. "After I finish and sleep."
"Deal!" She smiled and looked over at the cover of the book on top. His name was - August Gold… or was that a pseudonym? She didn't ask for now. She would let him work in peace just how he had asked.
She picked up the books and floated over to the windowsill, placing them there. Then she took her time to figure out the right order and started reading. The only interactions she had with the writer over the next two days were - waking him up when he passed out, to which he did give his thanks and making him a cup of coffee right after, although that one he merely drank with a thankful nod.
As the sun rose on the third day, the writer pressed send on an email, got up without a word, headed over to the sofa in the living room and passed out. Instantaneous knock-out.
The ghost looked over in his direction, showed a slightly complicated expression for a bit, but dropped the thought and continued reading. She was on the third book already and a half of it was still left.