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The ink was running dry.

Even though there were more than a hundred paintings strewn around his room, none of the pieces was his, until now.

Something had sparked. Dry leaves, tinder, wood, and gasoline seemed to have gathered for so long in him, that when the spark came, it burned slowly. There wasn’t much space for the fire to grow. It was just glowing embers and smoke, until now.

Death had crept while he slept and stole a part of him, leaving a large whole in his universe that was needed to be filled. But for now, it was this fire, be it hatred or love, it was hot, searing, and very painful. It wasn’t new to him. But he hadn’t felt in so long that it felt new, it was a reminder, that even as a ghost, he was alive. The fire needed an escape. The void was large, but the fire was larger; so he drew.

The slimer had abandoned his sculptures for drawing, and he drew many things in just black ink. Most of his drawings were obscure and shapeless, but in the fog of grey, there were bold lines, and faces. It was of Circe, and most of it was of her lifeless silhouette laying on the ground.

His body seemed lifeless for moments at a time. Veins of ink moved through his near translucent body, the visible black rivers outlined his body, and at times it ran across his face to draw a blank stare. He was on his knees, his shoulders forward, his head hung at his neck, facing the ceiling. His hands were black; ink-filled.

Slowly, he rose from the floor, using his ghostly-levitation, and hovered towards his door as he rose up to his feet. He hung in the air, seemingly lifeless as his limbs just hung, like a marionette being carried across the stage.

His body headed outside the dorms, but stopped short.

His head alone moved. It rose up along with his eyes to meet Circe’s.

“You…”

His voice cracked, and vanished softly at its end.

“You…”

Ghosts were known for being intangible, but the slimer was far from it. Evidenced as the necromancer’s fist connected with his cheek. His face lost its form for a second, turning into jelly that rippled from the force of her punch. The ink found around his face washed across his face, some dripped, and some would have rubbed on her knuckles. The hit sounded like the fresh meat slapped into the butcher’s table. He took the full force of it, and yet he floated in place.

“Yyyy,” his words jumbled for a second as his mouth began to form again, “You’re dead.”

A face finally was set in place, but it featureless. He had a nose without nostrils. He had a mouth without teeth, and empty eye sockets, all outlined by ink.

He stared at her as if he had eyes.

The boil rolled with the punches, and stayed in place. The sound was thick, and like before, it sent ripples through where it hit. They were painful, yet something else had taken hold of the slimer, that even his hold on himself was absent.

“I didn’t leave you.” His mouth opened, lipless, and it disappeared when it closed.

He groaned. His head tucked in. His face appeared; El Greco’s pale skin, green eyes, his thin blonde brows, a mouth and gritting teeth. His hands wrapped. His hands clutched at his chest. His knees tucked in. He groaned. He trembled as he lifted his eyes back to her. His face and its features disappearing as he stared back at her own black eyes.

“I didn’t want to leave you… but it was too late.”

His eyes shut, and he trembled a little at the memories of her death. He held himself a little tighter.

“You were gone, before I knew.”

Slowly he drifted back and away from her. His body still curled into a fetal position.

“Stay…”

His voice drifted to silence. The ink on his body, flowed and ebbed, in his body, writing words into his skin; a single word, a thousand times.

Dead.

The boil boiled.

Little pockets of air was appearing from his slime body, rising upwards to the top of skin, with the gasses pushing passed hemispheres before popping. They were small and barely making a sound. But they carried the ink with them.

The ink was dripping from him as he floated by her. His body and face were featureless; just barely humanoid. He barely made a sound save for his light breathing.

“It’s painful.” He whispered as he floated by her. “It’s painful to be so close to you.”

His body unfolded. His feet reached for the floor and his arms straightened at his side. He was walking away. His head still hung low as his hair grew, and hung in front of his face, hiding his eyes. The ink was still sliding off of his body, and leaving a trail behind.

“I never hated you.” He stopped walking, just a few feet away from her. "All I have is love."

He paused as he lifted his chin to look up at the sky.

"And it's too much for me."

“I think it’s better if you hate me.”

His hands slipped into his pockets, and leaned back, floating. His toes pointed slightly upwards.

“The sun,” another pause, “Maybe you are the sun.”

The ink had gathered to his heels and continued to drip. The trail was running dry. The light of the sun, along with his transparency made him almost invisible when viewed in front of the grass. He was invisible except for the black ink, and the black bones beneath his slimey shape.

“It’ll be easier for both of us if you hate me, and if you stay away. I’ll just bask in your light from a distance.”

His body half turned, enough for his head to turn and for an eye to reach hers.

“You would be happier without me.”