Page 32 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“Your mind will lie to you more than anyone else will, Lanston. You weren’t a fuck-up and you were not just thefriend who died.” I pause to let that sit with him a moment. “You are ahero.Why are you the only one who cannot see that?”
He lets out a weary laugh. “Because I don’t feel like a hero. I’m just… me. Sad. Depressed… dead.”
“I’ll remind you forever if I have to,” I threaten. He doesn’t make a sound, but I can feel his grin against my shoulder.
“I could get used to that.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“Now you.”
My stomach churns and my gaze falls back to the swings below. I think for a long moment, trapped in a place I’d forgotten or rather chose to leave behind.
Lanston shifts, his chin now resting on my shoulder and his lips coasting the tender flesh of my ear. Our interlocked hands on his thigh burn hotter.
“Does it have to do with your murder?” he asks sincerely.
My eyes wince instinctively at that word.“Not really, but I guess it’s where it started.”
This close, I can feel each breath he takes, drawing cool spells over my skin. I crave this sort of affection. The kind that is patient and attentive. Quiet but so loud in every other sense.
I swallow.
“My parents had a swing set just like that one. A yard just as trashed too. When I was in trouble, my stepmom would lock me out of the house and leave me outside for hours alone. I would sit on the swings for so long that I had indented lines on thebottom of my thighs.” The knot in my throat builds and I know I can’t swallow it. “After the years passed and I grew older, I’d just leave and go crash at a friend’s house instead. But I never forgot about the swings and how long I sat there, wondering why I was so bad. I really tried, you know. I would tell myself,tomorrow I’ll be better. I can change.”
Lanston lifts his head off my shoulder and I know he’s looking at me, but I’m not ready to meet his gaze.
I let out a sad, bitter laugh. “Do you want to know the fucked up part? My beingbadwas stupid shit that kids are supposed to do. I grew to hate the things I couldn’t change about myself. The way I craved to sing and dance more than anything. I grew to hate myself.”
He squeezes my hand harder and only then do I meet his eyes. They’re filled with many words, many apologies that no one else would say when I truly needed them.
“The swings remind you of your stolen childhood,” he finally says.
I ponder the statement, then nod.
From up here, I’m beginning to see how small the swings truly are. How insignificant and unimportant, and yet they manage to trigger me in many ways. Loneliness, mainly, I think. The hours of dried tear stains and cold fingers curled helplessly on the chains.
“When I look at them, all the rejection and abandonment return. And all the partial healing I’ve managed is gone.”
Silence.
Lanston springs to his feet. My head snaps up to his, automatically following his motion. The tears that had started to brim in my eyes are swiftly blinked away. He’s pulling me up before I can even utter a word.
“Let’s fuck up that swing set!” he shouts to the universe, chin raised dramatically, before looking back down at me and scooping me up into his arms, then running down the roof.
I instinctively let out a scream and cling to his shoulders. “Lanston!” I laugh-shout.
But he doesn’t stop. He leaps off the roof, laughing like a complete psycho, and lands on both feet with a small grunt. As the cold night air recedes, a playful heat rushes through my veins.
He sets me down and grabs a bat from one of the piles of trash in the yard. “Here—Fuck. It. Up.” His smile is bright and void of any thoughts.
“Why? That’s insane–”
“I swear you’ll feel better.”
I consider him for a moment and then sigh, taking the wooden bat from his outstretched hand. “Fine. But you have to help.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Like I’d sit this one out.” He winks and grabs a long pipe.
