Page 20 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
I wanted to pour the black ink from my heart onto pages and make others feel everything. To allow them to feel what I felt. To experience something they perhaps have once recognized inside themselves as well. And now it is too late. I’ve wasted what little time I had on earth, not doing anything except letting the illness of my mind take me into the depths. Into the dark.
Until Liam.
Until Wynn.
A tear rolls down my cheek and it pulls me back from my thoughts. I quickly swipe it away with my sleeve, relieved that she can’t see it.
“Ah, you don’t want to know. I draw dark things that come to me in moments of weariness. You know… just to get them out.” I shove the drawer shut and turn to her, smiling that cheerful, loose grin I always have tacked on regardless of what’s happening inside my head.
Ophelia watches me carefully, considering her words it seems, as she sits down on her bed. “I’d love to see them someday. I’m sure you’re quite talented. You’d be surprised at how much I adore dreary, gothic art.” She lies back on the sheets and spreads her arms out as she sighs. “I haven’t slept in a bed for years.”
I tilt my head but recall that her old opera house only has sofas. Phantoms don’t need beds, but I guess the old sentiment of them is nostalgic and comforting.
“I’m really not talented… but maybe I’ll show you sometime if you promise not to throw me into a ditch.” She lets out a short laugh and sits back up. Her pale mauve hair is in loose, natural curls. The color fits her black dress so well, enhancing the olive pigment of her skin and making her absolutely glow.Ophelia, I want to say her name over and over until I’m sick of it.Ophelia. You wondrous thing.
I want to know every secret in her head. Every last thought that makes her tick.
Ophelia nods. “I can do that. So long as you don’t hover above me again tonight.”
I bark out a laugh and move toward the door. “Deal. Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”
10
Ophelia
The air iscrisp in the forest lining Harlow Sanctum.
Montana is a terribly cold place, barren most of the year due to the short seasons. It’s spring, and yet most mornings are ridden with frost-tipped blades of grass.
But today is warm.
The sun peeks through a break in the gray clouds above and a beam of light casts down upon the misty pines. Lanston leads me through the field surrounding the manor. A whimsical stone path has been laid here; emerald green moss grows between the gray blocks.
I look up and smile as the edge of the forest nears.
“Where does this enchanted little path go?”
Lanston doesn’t look back at me as he chirps, “You’ll see.” His hands are in his jacket pockets. If someone were to see us walking down this path, they’d think we were on our way to a funeral. My black dress and his black jacket and pants certainly fit the bill.
I listen to the birds as they sing different songs than they do in my secret forest. The trees have much to say here; the souls who’ve walked through long ago have left small traces of their longing. Their voices are soft and tickle my skin. We all leave bits of us as we go, no matter our ignorance of the fact.
Some phantoms never realize the traces are there, but I see them everywhere. In the moss that peppers the shady side of boulders or in the flowers that reach toward the sun—they are there, hiding, small like gems that wish to never be found. Perhaps that’s why I don’t mind being dead so much. I’ve learned to embrace my solitude; being alone is something I hold dear. But Lanston’s presence refutes the law I’ve imposed upon myself—his ghost beckons to my own. I’ve never craved to know someone as entirely as I do him.
I walk headfirst into Lanston’s back, grunting a bit from the surprise at his sudden halt.
“Hey.”I rub my nose.
He looks over his shoulder at me and grins. “We’re here.” My eyes lift to the field around us and a small gasp escapes me.
Flowers circle the center area of the field where a few benches have been placed. At its center is a polished black stone about six feet tall with names engraved on it. The top of the stone is jagged in an artistic chip style, while every other side of it is smooth. My eyes are drawn back to the field. Beyond the small, closed white flowers are poppies and lavender. It’s a beautiful and quiet place where all the whispering trees that encase it fall into a hush.
“Why are the white flowers closed? They look like they're ready to bloom,” I ask as I admire them from afar, wishing to see their petals kissed with sunlight.
“Those are moonflowers; they only bloom beneath the stars,” he says softly, reminiscently.
Lanston closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the floral-scented air. “This is the memorial for all those who perished in the fire,” he says sadly, but there’s still a smile on his lips.
I walk closer to the pillar of names and find Jericho’s near the top. Lanston’s too. My fingers linger over his last name.Nevers.The stone is cold and instills dreariness in my heart.
