Page 37 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“I hope he does the stupid bucket list and finds his peace,” I whisper to one of my pothos plants. My iPod is a first gen and hardly works, but I turn on my favorite self-loathing song: “Ava” by Famy. Then I step foot on the worn stage and I dance alone.
Alone, as I’ve always been, as I despise myself for being.
But it’s better this way.
16
Lanston
Despair consumesme as I search the grounds for her.
I held her so close last night, but when I woke, my arms were cold and my Ophelia was gone. A chill floods through my veins.
She wouldn’t leave like this.She wouldn’t.
I’m usually good at suppressing emotions, but she knows how to really get beneath my skin and rustle old wounds. Our bucket list is crumpled in my left hand, fisted tightly as I check everywhere I can think of. I end my search in the foyer, reluctantly coming to the conclusion that she isn’t here.
Did she wait to leave after I fell asleep? Why does that hurt so much?
Why doesn’t anyone I develop feelings for stay?
Snakes coil inside my stomach as rage and sadness war inside my head. I bury my face in my hands.Abandonment. My weakness. My forever trigger. It stings almost as much as the fucking bullet that killed me. I ache inside with more emotions than I’ve felt in years.
She left me.
I’m always the one left behind.
The remaining spring days move slowly. The moon goes through its phases and more phantoms start to leave Harlow.
It’s her fault,I think to myself, weary and half-drunk on the rum I’d been saving. My frown grows as I stare at the books piled in the corner of my room. I’ve read them all four times over and need a visit to the bookstore. I sigh and lean back against my wall; palms braced on the cold tiles of my floor.
Jericho was inspired by Ophelia’s notion of the bucket list and Charlie’s ability to pass after finding his missing photo—so much so that he implemented it in his program. He wants phantoms to move on and find their reasons, but it only bleeds what’s left of Harlow into a shell. The halls have become empty, and the counseling groups now have vacant seats.
Yelina and Poppie decide to stay, but they are among the few that remain. Jericho has developed a look in his eyes, a longing for the world beyond these walls.
I fear he will soon pursue that call too.
It’s her fault that Harlow is changing,I think as I browse the bookstore. The shoppers are clueless about my existence and the way I move about them. Each book I pull off the shelf is very much real to me, but when I glance back to the original, it’s as if I’ve never touched it. The notion of my inability to reach the living world claws at my heart, creating fresh wounds where old ones have long since scabbed over.
One book in particular catches my eye. It has a dark cover and a very gothic aesthetic. A smile spreads over my lips as I instantly think how Ophelia would love it. There’s a pain that lingers in my jaw as I grind my teeth together. Against my anger toward her, I grab it anyway because I know how much she’d adore it. Just in case I happen to see her again—a thought that both irritates me and fills the void she left inside my chest.
Sometimes, I pretend to check out and pay like a person, but today, I’m feeling rather somber. I leave the bookstore with a handful of books in my backpack and glance over my shoulder to make sure no one truly sees me. They don’t. Of course.
My feet carry me back toward the alley that leads to the lookout, but instead of heading to the summit like I normally would, I stop at the swing set that troubled Ophelia so much. Although we completely destroyed it, it’s back as it was. It was so the moment we ran away from it that night.
I stare down at the old chains and the plastic seats for a long while before allowing myself to sit down on one. It brings me nostalgia. Of all the times I’d been alone on the elementary school playground and even after hours when I’d run away from home to avoid my father’s cruel gaze.
Did she have similar thoughts? Perhaps worse.
I tighten my grip on the chains and push the ground so the swing glides. The air is stagnant, but the small motion soothes something inside me. I glance to the swing beside me. Her absence creates a new hole in my chest. One much louder and more profound than I ever thought possible.
She never seemed to mind my silence, and I didn’t mind hers. But her presence is something I yearn for—her soft stolen glances at me and the blush of her cheeks. Her words that no one else can speak.
I miss her.
By midsummer, the sun is hot and the walls of Harlow have started to turn gray. Almost as if the phantoms that resided within it were what kept it in this purgatory. Now it crumbles, a sad image of itself.
I think of Ophelia often, and with thoughts of her come immense anger and pain.
