Page 22 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
The flower of death and mourning.
My mood instantly sours. They’re the exact same dark shade of red as the ones at my small, private burial. Pain curls inside my chest—a dark and angry beast, restless and starved.
I can still hear my stepmother’s hushed whispers to my father at the service.“Good riddance.”
My murderer stood alone and unnoticed, watching silently. Perhaps the only soul there who was sad and regretful.
“Do you like mums?”
Lanston’s voice brings a faint smile back to my lips and I swiftly look away from the flowers, banishing the wilted memories. His eyes are curious and he’s standing only a few inches from me now.
I shake my head. “No, I really don’t.”
A wicked smile. “I fucking hate them too.”
11
Lanston
Ophelia looksaround the group circle nervously. Her fists are clenched over her knees and she bounces her left leg while we wait for the last few phantoms to show up. Jericho smiles placidly and nods as they take their seats.
I lean back in the simple plastic chair, staring at Ophelia from across the room.
It’s unfair to compare this moment to Wynn, but when I stare at Ophelia I see such different things than I did with my lovely Coldfox. Now, I see a woman who is desperate to keep up the farce of being fine. She hides her scars well, but they are there, unscathed and rotting beneath the surface.
Her eyes lift to mine and I offer her a reassuring smile.
Jericho crosses his legs, revealing his black socks that match his suit. He adjusts his glasses as he looks at Ophelia. “Everyone, today we have a new phantom here with us, one you might recognize if you’ve gone to her shows, Miss Ophelia Rosin.”
She dips her head as everyone gives an unenthusiastic “hello.”
“Miss Rosin, we like to start these by stating how long we’ve been dead and why we think we’re still here. Care to start us off?” Jericho sets his clipboard across his lap and looks expectantly at her.
For a moment, I think she’ll decline, but she surprises me, lifting her chin and straightening her back.
“I’ve been dead for ten years and I’m still here because I’m not ready to leave. I want to dance; it’s been my dream ever since I was a child.” She pauses and looks at each and every face in the circle before coming across mine. Her brown-green eyes soften and she says quietly, “I still have so much to give to the world. I want them to know who I am.”
“Want who to know? A living person?” Jericho pries.
“Just one person will do. A stranger who will often think of me for any reason other than how I died,” she replies with a severe tone. Her brows are pulled tightly together but her lower lip threatens to quiver.
An awkward silence follows and Ophelia takes notice of it. She took a big leap coming here to be vulnerable, and I can see the regret beginning to etch her frown.
She’s in denial of her death.
Fuck, we all are, but she’s convinced herself that she can still give parts of herself to the living world. A knot forms in my stomach with the sadness that thought holds.
Jericho clears his throat and says, “Surely you know that’s not possible.”
Ophelia schools her expression into one that’s cold and emotionless as she callously questions, “Not possible, how?”
The counselor’s face twists with anguish. “Miss Rosin, because you are dead.”
“So? Have my performances not affected you in some way, however small it may be? You said it yourself—you’ve been to my shows for the last five years now.” She shrugs and a few heads nod. Yelina and Poppie shoot me a look. They look perplexed that she’s here. I lift a shoulder. If they’re wondering how I got her to follow me here, I don’t have an answer. Sheer luck.
Poppie clears her throat, her voice small and nervous. “Watching you perform has become a beacon of hope for me.” Jericho looks at her and his face turns thoughtful. “The way you embrace your existence here so entirely, well, it’s beautiful.”
Ophelia looks shocked and then smiles. I’m entranced by it. “I might look like I’m embracing it well, but I’m afraid I only hide the sadness in my heart better than most.” Her eyes dull as she clenches her hands together over her lap. This is hard for her—it’s always hard the first time in a group session.
