Page 29 of Come Out, Come Out

Skye is stunning with the moonlight draped across her. A lone star in the eternal night I’ve been cast into. The silver light catches the faded scars on her forearm and my fingers flex with the need to touch them. Curiosity burns within me, and I wonder at what point the agony became too much to contain. When did her soul start planning its escape to somewhere better?

Did nobody notice that she was bursting at the seams? They must have, they just refused to look. Rage snakes through me and I swear I taste the bitterness of it on my tongue. I hate whoever made her feel like she could never share the burden.

I never understood why people refused to look depression in the face. It was the childhood boogeyman of mental health issues. Don’t talk about it, don’t look at it, and maybe it won’t get you. It isn’t real if you don’t acknowledge it. Meanwhile, the other person is left shivering beneath the covers as it circles their bed, tugs at their feet, and eventually pulls them underneath with it.

It isn’t fair.

I won’t turn away from her. I’m crawling beneath that bed, cool wood pressed beneath my palm, dust tickling my nose, breaths stilted from the small space we’ve crowded into. I’ll wedge myself between her and her boogeyman, take the worst of its gnashing teeth and claws while my fingers remain interlocked with hers. She’ll never be alone again as long as I’m here.

Giving into the aching need, I run the back of my hand down her cheek. Disappointingly, she doesn’t nuzzle into it. I recall the heat of her soaking into my skin and my breath catches at the thought of never experiencing it again, stirring something needy and desperate within me. I need to hold her again,soon.

Skye

February 26th, 2021 – One and a Half Months Later

If someone had told me a few months ago that I’d be willingly spending my free time hanging out with the ghost who terrorized me and my friends—something we probably should’ve talked about but doesn’t seem to matter anymore—I would have laughed in their face. But it’s true. Here I am laying in bed with something that feels like anticipation lighting me up from the inside. Ineverwake up excited to start the day. However, lately I’m smiling and laughing so much more. It’s so novel to have someone so engaged, so eager to learn about me, and vice versa. We seem to have a lot in common, like how we believe animals should be treated like family and the fact that we passionately agree that art is critical to the human experience. It’s not just surface-level things, like our taste in music, but the things that are important, too, like our agreement that women deserve bodily autonomy — yes, I needed to know so I could banish him from my house if need be.

My stomach does a flip and I suppress the smirk that threatens to reveal that I’m not still asleep. I’m not quite ready to start the day. I have so much work to get through. But then again, the workdays aren’t as long anymore. I’ve been so much more efficient now that I’m determined to spend way fewer hours hunched over my computer and more trading flirty messages in the bathroom mirror.

It’s bizarre to think that he’s probably watching me right now, that he could always be watching me. Thrilling, is another word for it. Sometimes, it’s even comforting. I used to think that would be creepy. It just feels like home. I always felt connected to this space, reasonably safe within these walls. Was it because of him? I think so.

What does it say about me that I find it easier to talk to a ghost than ninety percent of the people I’ve met in my lifetime? I suppose it validates many of the assessments people have made about me over the years—unusual, mentally unstable, bad at conversation. But for the first time, none of it feels true. More importantly, it doesn’t matter.

Despite everything, this feels normal. Well, other than the fact that I don’t know his name or where he came from, and you know, the whole being dead thing. What did that matter though, when we had so much in common, when he made me feel safe, when he made me feel like I wasn’t completely and utterly alone for the first time in my life?

If he is always watching, that means he sees me—every dark secret, the things I’ve always tried to hide, all my worst days. And still, he wants to be around me.

I mean, sure, he doesn’t have much of a choice about being here—I assume as a ghost, that he’s trapped here—but still, he doesn’t have to make himself known. I choose to believe that hewantsto be around me. He said he likes watching me. I’ll take his words at face value, that’s what I always wish others would do.

I try to tell myself I wouldn’t care either way. I want to deny that I’ve grown attached to the spirit in my house. Both would be lies.

He’s become a steady presence in my life. One that doesn’t require me to change. He’s quite possibly the first . . . person . . . I don’t have to tiptoe around. What a novel concept, to not feel like a burden to someone.

That motivates me to finally open my eyes. Only a soft glow of sunlight greets me, the brunt of the brightness thankfully contained by blackout curtains. I could kiss whoever invented them. I stroke Binx’s tiny head and am rewarded with soft vibrations of affection. When I turn to my other side, I open the drawer of my bedside table and reach for a joint out of habit but freeze when my fingers touch the rolling paper. It’s been days since I’ve turned to any of my usual vices. I haven’t felt the urge to run away.

It won’t last, it never does, but I know the pattern well.Fuck. I think I’m catching feelings for a ghost. Suddenly, my saliva is as thick as syrup as I try to swallow down my shame and shock. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I don’t even know his name. The pace of my heartbeat quickens as a thousand loud thoughts run through my mind. The quietest voice stands out, though. It’s the one saying that yes, it’s silly and fruitless, but I should hold on tight to this rare source of joy until it inevitably fizzles out.

Nothing can come of it, after all. I’m anything but a traditionalist, but even I’m not delusional enough to believe that I can have a relationship with a ghost.I don’t even know his name.I remind myself for the tenth time. And more to the point, I know it won’t last because it never does. People—alive and dead, I would imagine—fall in love with the idea of me. The reality, not so much.

The idea of Skye is sexy and mysterious. Then the mystery unravels and they find out that what’s been hiding is a fun little treasure chest filled with anxiety, irritability, a medley of little peculiarities that are anything but charming if you look too closely, and of course, the incessant depression. It doesn’t matter how big my tits are or how eager I am to ride them, nobody, not even the typically more open-minded people I’ve dated can stick it out. So, I guess there’s no danger in letting this absurd crush last a little longer. Soon, I’ll be on my own again and he’ll be a distant memory. He’ll avoid me like they always do. I’ll get the hint and stop looking for him. We’ll go back to being two ships passing in the night. And I’ll be stranded once again.

And there my brain goes killing that rare light of excitement once again.

With a long sigh, I finally get out of bed. I brush my teeth in silence, avoiding my own reflection, unable to look at myself and the misery I know I’ll see reflected in my eyes that I’ve inflicted on myself. But even if I don’t look at it head-on, I can’t ignore it; the voices that confirm all my doubts grow louder and louder. To drown them out, I reach for that little vial that’s been sitting idly on my counter for the last few days, tidy up a line, grab the rolled dollar bill, and inhale, initiating chemical warfare against my inner demons.Much better.

By the time I step into the shower, I’m humming one of my favorite songs and basking in the refreshing scent of my eucalyptus and lemon body wash.A breath of fresh air.Massaging the shampoo into my hair feels like heaven as I knead the little scrubber against my scalp. After I finish washing my hair, and shaving myself silky smooth just because, I finally turn off the water.

My toes curl around the soft fibers of my rug and a little zip of satisfaction tingles through my loose limbs, but it’s immediately overrun by a hot flare of anger when I see that the vial has spilled over into the still-wet sink.Fucking hell. How?I run back through the minutes before I got into the shower. I didn’t close it, but I also don’t remember spilling it. I would havedefinitelyremembered; it’s not easy for me to get more of.

“Binx,” I hiss, stomping through the doorway and back into my room. His head pops up from under his paws as he startles awake with an irritated little meow. I was only in there for about ten minutes. Was it really plausible that he got up, jumped on the counter, knocked it over, and then came back in here to theexact same spotand fell back asleep? All without meowing his displeasure that I was in the shower . . . possible, but not likely. Slowly, I turn back toward the bathroom. My face is pinched in a squinting glare as I stomp my ass back in there.

“Did you do this?” My voice echoes in an angry growl that I barely recognize. Just when I think the coward might ignore me, letters begin to form on the mirror in front of me.Yes.My rage intensifies. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Several seconds pass.You’re hurting yourself.First, the jealous fit when I had that couple over, and now this. “It’s none of your business. You’re not my boyfriend and you certainly aren’t my keeper.”

I stand there, nearly crushing the tiny container in my grip. I bite my cheek to try to get a hold on my anger but when there’s no further explanation and no apology, that goes out the window. “Go fuck yourself.” I slam the door behind me. Logically, I know it won’t do anything, but emotionally it feels like it creates the space I need from him right now.

I don’t know when the hell I gave him the idea that he had any kind of say over my life, but I’m going to make sure it’s crystal clear that what I did was none of his business. He wouldn’t,couldn’t, stop me from doing what I want. I’m a grown-ass woman. And as any rational grown woman would do, I turn on some of my most repetitive, synthy, bubblegum pop music that I hope will annoy the shit out of him, crank the volume all the way up, and proceed to indulge myself in the remaining coke I still have.

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