Dan's POV

Phil got up and went out today, but not far. He went to a liquor store and bought himself more to drink. He got drunk and laid in bed, then slept. He woke up and began to drink again until he was out of the drink.

He's getting drunk, not eating, wont shower, wont dress....

My concern only grew. I sat beside him, watching the entire scene unfold for hours. I was even more worried that he didn't pick up his phone when it buzzed, and he had no one to tell him to get up and move. He would listen to no one. It gave me stress, even being dead.

Phil sipped his drink on his bed, the bottle, nearly empty, gripped in his fist by the neck. He dropped it once he was done, and lowered his head to the pillow, looking up at the ceiling above.

"Phil," I sighed uselessly, "please get up. Please take care of yourself. You can't possibly do this forever, Phil."

He groaned at the ceiling and his eyes squeezed shut. "Oh Dan," he finally says, speaking to himself, "Why couldn't you have just stayed home? Why did you have to die? I hate you so much, you idiot."

"I'm sorry, Phil," I said, talking to myself.

"I never should have told you to go out. It's all my fault."

Hearing those words struck a nerve deep within me. It was exactly then that I knew that he was in no way okay.

"No," I snapped. "No, Phil, don't blame yourself, please. Please don't do this, Phil."

"It's my fault...." He covered his face with his hands. "God dammit, Dan, I loved you! How could this happen?"

I felt like I was crying, but I physically no longer could. "I loved you too, Phil. I still do. I always will."

Phil didn't make a noise. Tears silently fell between his fingers.

This had to stop. He couldn't go on like this, I knew. Something had to be done for him. He can't go on crying and drinking and slowly destroying himself. I doubted it would work, but I took out my phone. I sent him a text:

'Phil, please get up'

I almost screamed when his phone buzzed. Had it actually gone through? I text him again, repeating the same thing. It buzzed again. Phil looked up.

Check the phone, I thought. Check it, check it, check it, please.

His head fell back to the pillow.

No.

I sent more of the same text hoping to annoy him. He sighed and picked it up.

Yes!

Phil took one look and his face filled with horror. While he was looking, I sent the same again. As it went through and he saw it, he slapped a hand over his chest in fear and threw his phone across the room.

Dammit, Phil.

"Crazy," he whispered to himself. "I'm going insane."

I tried to send another text, but my phone gave out and died. It was useless now. "Oh Phil...."

He stood up and kept his distance from the phone as he escaped his room. He went to the bathroom, where he washed his face and stared at himself in the mirror. I stood beside him, but I had no reflection. He rubbed the sleep and dried salt from his eyes and sat on the toilet seat. He sighed at himself. His face was blank now, as if he had nothing left. He began to rummage beneath the sink, searching for something. He carelessly knocked around anything he found until gripping a small box and pulling it out. He then set it on the counter of the sink and rolled up his sleeve.

I swore. "No, Phil! Stop!"

He opened the box. In it were fresh, never-been-touched razor blades. He ripped one out from it's packaging.

"Stop it!" I screamed, trying to grab his hand and pull it back from what he was about to do. My arm went right through his. I was powerless.

Phil sat on the closed toilet seat and lower the blade to his arm. I watched in horror as the sharp, shining piece of metal neared his skin. I felt myself in a panic.

"No!" I yelled at him, slapping almost by reaction at his hand, causing him to drop the blade.

Yes! He dropped it.

"Stop it, Phil! Please don't! It's not worth it!"

He stared at the blade on the bathroom floor. He was shaking. His conscious mind had finally caught up with his actions just in time.

Still shaking in fear of himself (better than in fear of what just happened), Phil stumbled back to his room and collapsed in his bed.

Phil quietly fell into another depressed sleep, this time not crying into it. I got up from my seat and crawled into his bed with him, spooning him from behind. I put my ghostly hand over his. He didn't move or adjust to me, since I wasn't really there. He was very still – all but his hand, which, once I covered it with my own, twitched once or twice before settling and allowing him to relax.