At the End fo Eight Years

In the beginning, it was easy. Easy to fight. Easy to rebel. Easy to stay alive.

In the end I suppose it was only eight years. That makes me twenty-three, by human standards.

For the first fifteen years of my eternity, I was called Beagle. But even I don't think of myself that way anymore. And she doesn't even remember her old name. I had no choice but to remember for her.

I guess this is why I don't like labels, not anymore. Where I come from, our name is everything. I was Beagle, and she was Ghost. She was nothing. Then suddenly she just took over, and suddenly they were calling her Beagle. I had no name so I took hers the same way she'd stolen mine. If you could even call "Ghost" a name.

I guess that's when I realized names weren't that important after all.

I became the faded pencil marks sketched at the bottom of a school notebook, ignored even more so than the notes crammed above.

Why she chose me, well, I have no idea. Maybe it was because of what I was, y'know--I mean, she was already immortal (undead?), why not add on transformation and an actual body to top it off? Or maybe it was just because I was young. Replaceable. Weak.

Maybe it's because she knew I couldn't sit still for more than an hour, and now that I couldn't move without her forcing me she could sit and laugh and I wouldn't be able to kick her for it.

In the beginning, it was easy. Easy to fight. And I guess in the end, it was easy too. Easy to forget that any of this had ever happened. Easy to forget that I hadn't been called Ghost from the start.

In the beginning, it was easy.