Wayne could see again. He sat up and looked around at the haggard walls around him, still recognizable as the ones of his home. There were scorch marks in the surrounding area, the wall paper was peeling, debris and trash littered the ground, and the tiled floor was cracked and broken. What caught Wayne's attention, however, was none of these things. Instead, it was the fact that not only was he hovering slightly above the ground, he was also transparent. The shocking image of his see-through, blue tinted hands took a bit of time before he was able to process what he was seeing. When he did come to the full realization that these were, in fact, his hands, he became understandably confused. He tried to remember why he would be in this condition. He remembered what had happened just before. There was a knife, and a man, and his family was... Again, it took some time to put two and two together. When he did come to a conclusion, his heart (which he now knew to likely no longer exist) stopped in his chest. He desperately hoped he was wrong, he wanted to wake up and realize he was dreaming, he wanted an answer to his predicament that was anything but what he came to. This was because the only reason he could think of that he would be a floating, transparent version of himself was that he had died and was now some sort of specter. He tried to drudge up why he was like this from his memories, and unfortunately, did. It was... cloudy, hard to remember, like a dream after he had woken up, but he could recall a man stabbing him, driving his dagger through his ribs and into his heart. It was painful, he remembered that much, and he could perfectly remember the man's face and, to a lesser extent, his name, Argus. Wayne realized that this wasn't the only memory that had grown foggy, but almost everything else had as well. Memories of playing when he was younger, of servants whose faces he couldn't remember there with him, of being with his mother and father and sister. He could remember their faces, their names, what they were like, but he couldn't recall anything specific. He didn't remember any events that solidified his father's image as an outwardly tough man, who was really just protective and caring on the inside. He couldn't remember why he knew his mother was a smart and charismatic individual, who cared for her family as much as she could.
Looking down, he could still see the knife wound that had ended his short life. The gash across his clothes and skin stood out like a sore thumb, the spot surrounding it tinged blood red instead of the usual ethereal blue. The clothing that he wore seemed to be a part of him, but the cloth around the lethal cut was tattered and a strip of it was slouching down. On the skin underneath he could see a thin, stretched ellipse of parted, ghostly flesh. Wayne took a deep, shuddering breath as the situation started to sink in. The fact that him and his family were dead washed over him and he felt like crying. He curled up on the ground as his form shook. He lay on the ground, silently weeping and shivering. Why him? What did he do wrong? It was all going so well, why did this happen? He stayed like that for hours, wishing his situation away and hating the unfairness of it all.
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Wayne had stopped sobbing. Now, he was overcome with emptiness. For another hour he stared at the ceiling and did absolutely nothing. Finally, he hovered up. He took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. Then he did it again, and again, until he felt just a little better. This is what his father had taught him, his way of dealing with grief. He learned it in the military. He always told Wayne stories, stories that he could no longer remember. That he would never... No. He couldn't sit here and dwell on the past. So instead, he looked around and took in the dilapidated state of his home. He must have been dead for a few weeks, at least. Maybe longer, considering the amount of disrepair. Slowly, he made his way out of the door. He had hoped the rest of the house was in better condition, but sadly not. There were no more burns, at least. The fire was probably put out in the office he died in. Argus likely didn't want to attract attention before he escaped. Thinking of his murderer, Wayne was filled with rage. He was the one who had taken everything from Wayne. It was all his fault! As he stirred in his anger, some of the nearby trash shook from his outburst, unnoticed by Wayne. It took him a few minutes to calm down. He couldn't do anything to Argus right now. Instead, he should channel his emotions into something productive, like trying to get into touch with the authorities. Naturally occurring undead are usually hunted down and killed, but surely they wouldn't do that to him? He was still a person, after all. Yes, if he just contacted the police force, they would solve all of this. Thinking this, he floated his way to the entrance of the mansion. When he tried to open the doors, however, his hand phased through the handle. Surprised, he hovered back and considered the problem. Only now realizing something he should have already considered, he hovered over to the nearest wall and put his hand directly through. A boyish smile appeared on his face as he sent his whole body through the wall. It was an odd feeling, but not horrible. Like a slight tingling sensation when something just barely brushes your skin. He passed through the wall and into the kitchen. Cookware was scattered around, but that was of no concern to Wayne. He went around, passing through various objects with child-like fascination. He giggled for the first time since dying, and felt... hopeful, that maybe being dead wouldn't be as bad as he imagined.
After he finished playing around with his newfound ability, he went back to the foyer and tried to float through the door, full of confidence. However, when he tried to pass through, he bounced back violently. He felt a shock go up his body as he was sent careening through the wall behind him and into the kitchen again. Righting himself from his newfound position of floating upside down, he shook off the daze accompanying the jolt and impromptu flight. A confused look appeared on his face as returned to the foyer. The doorway was the exact same, as if it didn't just send him through a wall. He then came up with an idea, and tried to instead phase through the wall beside the doors, which promptly sent him off again, just like the doors had. Now irritated, he didn't even bother trying to go back into the foyer, and instead dove straight into the ground, planning to just go under the door. The floor, similarly, ricocheted him into the second story of the house. He decided to wait a bit, and try to come up with a more concrete plan. Why, exactly, couldn't Wayne pass through the door? What was different about he walls he could pass through, and the door and wall he couldn't? Why can't he go through the floor? It didn't take him long to find an answer, now that he sat and thought about it. It was probably because they led outside. He was now a ghost, ghosts haunt places. Perhaps that was it? Wayne had an idea that might be able to give credence his answer. It might not prove it outright, but it would definitely lend support to the hypothesis. Going back into the foyer, Wayne considered how to do this. If he could pass through objects, he most likely had access to other ghostly abilities. Looking at a nearby candelabra, he imagined it floating into the air. It shook slightly, which encouraged him to try harder. He concentrated on the metal object, and it lifted itself of the ground. With a thought, he threw it down the darkened hallway, and it flew with considerable speed. He could hear a satisfying ting as it hit the wall fifteen meters away. It was only about three pounds, but to throw it that far and that fast was impressive for an unfit thirteen year old boy. Next, he looked towards the doors.
Willing them into the direction he wanted, the doors creaked inward. Outside he could see it was dark, and the front lawn was in a similar state of neglect as the house. The yard was overgrown, the hedge bushes now unruly and wild, but not much taller than before. Weeds scattered the area, and a single path of stone, cracked in some places, led to the patio. He breathed in and out, preparing to likely be sent flying back, and slowly tried poking his fingertip through the door. As he expected, he felt a shock ripple up his arm as it was thrown away from the invisible barrier. He wasn't sent back, but his hypothesis was proven to likely be correct. He was secretly hoping he just couldn't use any of his abilities outside his home. He sighed, realizing that he only breathed to sigh and calm down instead of out of necessity, and floated into the inner parts of the mansion. Idly floating, he considered whether or not he could float any higher. He tried, and it worked. He floated up, and discovered he could move in just about any direction he wanted. He could turn himself upside down, float about laying on his back in midair, or whatever other position he would like to fly around in. He drifted about the house, pondering the question he had ever since he realized he was stuck here. Now what was he supposed to do? He was stuck alone with his thoughts, and he really, really wanted to not be. Otherwise, he would have to think about his family. And he would have to think about how he would never see them again. And realize his little sister was probably dead. And that everyone he knew is dead. And that he was alone, completely alone, with no one there to help him, and everything is horrible, and he just wanted to go back, and he wished Argus never showed up and he would never go back to school and he was a ghost and... Before Wayne realized it, he was silently sobbing on the ground again. But Wayne accepted that he needed to grieve, that he needed to come to terms with what happened. He couldn't let this ruin his unlife. His parents wouldn't want him to become a self pitying, useless lump of ectoplasm. So he sat, and he grieved. He accepted that this was his reality now, and he would have to deal with it. That didn't stop him from continuing to cry on the ground. For just a little while longer, he thought, he could allow himself this much for his family.
