Super Sonic + writing challenge

Muse Wars- Challenge Four

OK peoples,

It's short story time again- check out the deal-io here.

The Ghost

There was a ghost who wandered the streets of the city at night.

She hadn't always been a ghost. Once, her name had been Therese.

Now, she drifts through the city streets, unknown and almost unseen. People catch a glimpse of her, now and then, but ask them hours later what they had seen and they wouldn't quite recall. They would know they had seen something, but the details were a blur...

The ghost liked the smell of the city at night. Not exactly pleasent, but comfortable. The gritty smell of dirt and tar and trains. The resonating odours of a mingle of foods. The smell of people, too many people in such a concentrated space. And at night, especially on a Saturday night, the smell of humanity was magnified and added to. Urine. Vomit. The occasional waft of tobacco or pot. The yeasty smell of beer. The pockets of cheap perfume and overdone aftershave.

The ghost slipped through the scents. Intoxicated.

She fed on the pulse of the city at night, humanity at it's hedonistic peak. Pumping music and laughter, people unconsciously walking to deep bass beats. She liked the groups of men, the gaggles of women, talking, laughing, kissing, being alive, testing their vitality. She bore witness to the passing parade of souls.

It made her feel alive too.

The lights dazzled her. The neon's, the constantly changing traffic lights. No stars, not in the city at nighttime.

The ghost is tired. She has had enough, supping at milk of human energy. It is overwhelming, even now, after doing it for so long.

She returns to her bed. A few tattered blankets, plastic bags with possessions carefully stashed out of sight.

She breathes an audible sigh of relief, as she does every time she returns to find her bags of goods in tact. There is not much there, but what she does have is precious.

She settles her blankets, wraps herself in them, not removing the layers of clothes, the gloves that keep her warm. It is the middle of winter, and she is wearing everything she owns.

Her name, once, was Therese. She holds the thought as she drifts into sleep.

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Muse Wars- Challenge Four + writing challenge