Summary

A ghostly narrator recounts a day spent with a teenage girl, referred to as a "star seed," who has struggled with suicidal thoughts and seeks solace in therapy and alcohol, ultimately finding a moment of connection and hope with the narrator.

Abstract

The narrative follows a ghost accompanying a young woman, the "star seed," after her therapy session with a Tunisian psychologist named Ilmalky. Despite initial skepticism, the girl finds relief in the psychologist's unconventional methods. The ghost, who remains unseen by most, observes the girl's decision to embrace life and reflects on the nature of existence, parenthood, and the human condition. The girl, of Ukrainian descent, later encounters the ghost at a Bosnian eatery where she confronts her own struggles with mental health and the societal pressures of youth. Their interaction is marked by a poignant exchange where the ghost, despite his ability to remain detached, becomes emotionally invested in the girl's well-being, emphasizing the universal need for connection and reassurance.

Opinions

The narrator, a ghost, views the psychologist Ilmalky as a wizard and appreciates his ability to bring about positive change in the star seed.
The ghost expresses a disdain for excessive gratitude, suggesting that actions should speak for themselves without the need for constant thanks.
The narrator has a complex relationship with the concept of parenthood, recognizing the impact of both mother and father figures in shaping one's life.
The ghost believes that the star seed's decision to drink beer is a regression in her journey to recovery, yet he also acknowledges the complexity of her situation and the need for personal agency.
The narrator empathizes with the star seed's internal struggle and the societal expectations placed upon her, particularly the pressure to conform to certain behaviors and appearances.
The ghost ultimately realizes that despite his ability to influence situations, he cannot control the star seed's destiny and that her life is her own to live or end.

A Little Tiny Saint Child Who Might Die

A teenage girl decides to get better, decides to drink too

Photo by Johnny Cohen on Unsplash, “Woman Crying”.

Yesterday a star seed comes to the psychologist. The psychologist is a pot bellied Tunisian Ilmalky with a carefreeness that is very rare. At her sobs he is mechanical, cold — until I realize he is a wizard who simply follows the path of least resistance.

30 minutes later, he has her smiling, sighing with relief. She will live!

Diagnosis: she is far from alive.

All three of us hurry away from there. I, ghost, walk in the middle, and look for a toilet to slip into to wash off the murder. Luckily, the toilet is clean and beige, and you know how light from a well-fenestrated corridor can sometimes lag in enclosed spaces, like a spy slowly turning against their state.

Ilmalky does not thank me, ghost. He says bye-bye thrice, instead, purgingly.

Bye-bye. Bye-bye. Bye-bye-bye!

I like him for this.

People thank you thank you too much.

The star seed didn’t thank nobody but soon she’ll have all sorts of ways to thank. Once she’s stopped thinking, of course.

In the sun, which some people panic from, I hear (but I don’t), I go over the session. Ilmalky was patriarchal in there. Know how some people drop their chins to their collarbone and look at you like they are flying airplanes into you?

Goddamit, Ilmalky!

It’s not that we are motherless anymore. It is that we are fatherless too, and orphaned like lose pudding.

You, who is reading this, is retarded. You didn’t think I’d go there. But I mean well.

I scare two hoodlum kids on my way to beer. They must think it is night. They come up to the tree by which I stand and I am dressed in black and they must think it is night. They see me or see the tree and go, “OH SHIT!” and they scurry away, afraid to stay, afraid to run.

I ghost them.

The beer I buy from a micro-mall Cevaperia. Know those Bosnian places with lots of dough in them? Bosnia was muslim and still they serve me beer today. I raise my glass at Mrado who is tinkering with the last of his testosterone, his white t-shirt and black jeans upholster via dry detergent some of his frame.

He is slightly mortified. It is too early for restaraunters to be of use. It certainly is too early to watch young promising ghosts drink beer at eleven am.

Mrado! I think. Hey M-mrado!

Got a daughter?

I know he does. But she is far away. Ghost, I feel she might even be abroad. Bosnia? Nah. She’s ben run through the Swedish program. Her brunette rosalinda goes to places like London, to shop, and Dubai, to take photos of her girl coven.

Suddenly it all goes wrong.

The star seed walks in. She sees me: of course you cannot see ghosts. But you know.

Please please please, make her turn away. Do not sit! Dog, for once, do not sit!

She hesitates as if a smell is stopping her. But her flesh is too determined.

Did I tell you she is Ukrainian? Not one of those Ukrainians. Another one. Still.

She came to the psychologist and now she comes here to drink. That’s two drinkers too many for old Mrado who burringly massages his heart as he puts down the pint in front of Star Seed.

He cannot look her in the eye. But he must serve her. This is the Mrado code.

Star Seed lifts the beer for the first time. I might as well raise my glass at her too. I have, ghost, the stirring sensation that we might be the only two people having a beer in a public establishment in the whole of Sweden. Right now.

Star Seed gulps and feels better. What does it mean — feel better from beer?

“Hrm hrm”, I tell her.

She looks up. Cannot quite see me yet. But oh, oh, there I am!

Enough beer in her to merely tense, then surf of off the beer.

“It’s you”, I tell her before she has the chance. “You are on prescription drugs! What gives? I mean — I prevented myself from…”

“From what? From helping me? I say to people like you: ghost you! Now, let me do my thing.”

“I know too much about you, kid. You know that.”

“You’re threatening me asshole.”

“I did you so good. You invaded my friggin vacation!”

“Live free.”

“But you promised you wouldn’t die young.”

She sighs. And I sigh. Thankfully… I mean, you know those children with boon maturity, but who are infantilized by their families, their programmings? Luckily…

She needs to convince me. All daughters — which are all women, to all men, everywhere, taking turns being father and child, hopefully organizedly — need to convince their fathers that they will be fine. So that the father can die.

You know.

But I fear she is the one who might die, and I tell her. I am sobbing by now. I shouldn’t have come today.

Star Seed has the plump beauty of someone who can only be seen by people who pause. She has shoulder-lenght blue hair, a square, round face, and the arrangement of cheeky honesty fore-dominating all her grief and insecurity.

She is, in short, neither child nor adult.

I start rambling. About the Prophet and his marriage to so and so. I tell her it’s all good — Mrado has us drinking.

Star Seed is sad now too. She has on festival clothes. Summer is far away.

We are both sobbing by now but luckily I can ghost both of our tears or Mrado would stop serving or even throw us out. Drinking and morning and sobbing is simply too haram.

“Star Seed”, I say, “you promised your friend…”

“It wasn’t a friend”, she sobbed. “It was a massage therapist.”

“Why didn’t you promise your friend you wouldn’t take your own life?”

“Because friendship makes me even more alone. Can’t have friendships. Also not ready to talk about it.”

“The beer is on me.”

“Who are you? Why were you let in to my session?”

I tell her. I finally realize that it is not up to me if she lives or dies. I can merely ghost. I am good at that.