I was 7, Jake was 8. We were playing, that's all.
My dad was home from work- one rare occasion. Mum was smiling and Jake and his family were round. While the adults laughed and gossiped about the small town where we live and Dad amusing them with the 'funny' stories from the police station, Jake and I were playing one of our secret games. We had many, one minute we'd be brave knights (though many a time I was forced to be a lady captured in a tower guarded by a dragon), the next we were jungle explores. We'd push his sister away from our games, she was too young.
So now this scene is set, I can start with what happened. This fine afternoon we were playing cops and robbers, of course I was the policeman. I chased Jake round the garden, shouting joyfully that he was going to be so sorry when I caught him. To add a bit of atmosphere i grabbed my dads gun, he'd left it laying around, I wasn't going to hurt him. He turned round as he'd notice my running and shouts had stopped. He froze, then laughed. Then, suddenly, my dad shouted at me. "Put that gun down, you look obscene and you could hurt someone!" I jumped, in my fright I pulled the trigger.
Slowly I turned. There was Jake, fallen to the floor. Blood seeped the life from him as it mixed with the green grass, enchanting the spirit away. My daze was interrupted by the screams of Jake's mum. She ran to Jake, hugged him as he was slipping away, she sobbed. Nothing in this life is as moving as a mother crying as her child slips away. I couldn't move, but his hand slipped into mine. Jake, he wasn't alive, not anymore but he was here with me. A ghost. To stay with me, as long as I needed him. Or so I thought.