My name is Bella, I live in Denver, Colorado, and I had sex with a ghost. Not just any old ghost, because that would be amazing, but not quite amazing enough to be worth telling the world about. No, dear reader, I had sex with my father’s ghost.
Let me start from the beginning, for I understand that incredible claims require extraordinary burden of proof.
I was born in Denver 26 years ago, the first and only child of my loving and caring parents, my mother Martha and my father Kevin. They were originally from Rapid City, South Dakota, but decided the big city would be a better place to find opportunity and raise a child, so as soon as my mom got pregnant, they packed everything and drove south. I love Denver, and I am ever so grateful to them for the move. It’s the right mix of hipster, modern, cool, and yet outdoorsy and wild.
Ten years passed, until the day my father starting having headaches. Three weeks with no reprieve convinced him to see a doctor. After a myriad of tests, the diagnosis left no mercy nor hope: cancer, 6 weeks left to live, at most. It turned out to be 4. Really, three. The last week, the drugs had already killed the man I knew, only his body left behind, his pain and his haze. When he passed away, I was heartbroken, but relieved.