I caught my parents fucking in my bed again today. 

“Oh, come on!” I yelled. “Get out! Go! This is my room now, my house now, remember?”

They floated to the ceiling without even stopping what they were doing, then disappeared. 

I don’t get it. I mean, they practically loathed each other when they were alive, now they can’t get enough of each other in death. I guess sex during their murder-suicide turned them on for eternity. I still don’t know which one of them drove the car onto the tracks that night.

I went out back to smoke a bowl. There were ghost kids chasing each other in my yard. Usually I don’t care; it’s not like they do any damage, but I was in a foul mood.

“Hey, you brats! Get the hell out of here!”

I watched them fly away, letting currents take them. Huh. I had no idea dead kids cried. 

I sat on the back steps and lit up, letting myself get lost in thought. Maybe if I move my bed back to my old room, let them have theirs back, that might solve part of the problem. Keep their door closed and pretend they’re never in there.

It’s a start, anyway.

Before I went back inside, I looked up at the sky and all around me. So many ghosts flying, floating everywhere. Someday I’ll be one of them. Not sure how I feel about that.

When I came into  the living room, there were my parents again, fucking on the couch this time. I stood there, staring at them, then I just sighed. At least they don’t make any sounds.

I sat in my recliner and grabbed the remote. 

Fuck it.

I’ll deal with them tomorrow.

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Sheri White’s stories have been published in many anthologies and zines, including an essay in the Notable Works for the HWA Mental Health Initiative, an essay in JAKE Magazine, Tales from the Crust (edited by Max Booth III and David James Keaton), Halldark Holidays (edited by Gabino Iglesias), and The Horror Writers Association’s Don’t Turn Out the Lights (edited by Jonathan Maberry).