Page 4 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
But most men aren’t raised to be emotional. So much cruelty and hardness is expected from us. Perhaps that’s why my fatherwas so callous to me—so fucking cold. He didn’t know any better, and he fucking hated the softness of my heart. The tears that I shed so effortlessly.
I often wonder if he’d had a shoulder to cry on when he was seven, if he would be a different person now. Heartless assholes aren’t born, you know. They’re trained into it. Their souls have been drained early and thoroughly by the wicked people before them. Hurt people tend to hurt people.
The cycle. The sad fucking truth of it.
I wish I could’ve been that shoulder for him to cry on. But I didn’t have a shoulder either, not a hug or a warm place to find safety in my darkest of times. And I didn’t turn out to be a cold-blooded sack of shit. So where’s the excuse? Where’s the silver lining?
It’s not fair. It wasneverfair, and I suffered for it.
It’s hard to let that go—the absolute injustice of it.
I’m still here.
I am still here… and I won’t ever get that fucking apology.
At my funeral, my father just stared, cold and empty, at the casket as they lowered my flesh and bones into the earth. Wynn and Liam cried until the sky wept alongside them, but not him. Not my father. He didn’t say one word. Shed not a single tear, even for his only son. Even though Mom was dead too, and I was all that he had left.
No. Men don’t cry—not men like him.
“You okay?”
I snap my head to Jericho, warm orange orbs from streetlamps hovering behind him, and it sucks me back into the present. “Huh?”
He pulls his cigarette from his mouth and frowns at me. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately, Nevers.” I raise a shoulder and let it drop. He doesn’t press me further, even though he gives me that pitying look he always does. “I’m hoping thatwe’ll see fellow phantoms tonight,” Jericho says, changing the subject. His hazel eyes have that familiar gleam to them. He’s a positive-side-of-things guy and I can appreciate how chipper he is.
Five years ago, I was the happy one in the group. My eyes lower to my arm, just above the crease of my inner elbow. The III tattoo grounds me; even if I can’t see it beneath my coat, knowing it’s there eases me. I think of them every day.
“Why? They’re all miserable like we are,” I say lifelessly as I shove my hands into the pockets of my black leather jacket.
Phantoms. You’d think we’d call each other ghosts or, I don’t know, just people. But the apparent rule is that all dead people stuck in the middle, like we are, typically go by phantoms.
Jericho laughs and jerks his head toward the tall building that has a theater inside. I’ve only been here once, and it’s not fancy or anything. It does, however, have that nostalgic, rustic feel to it. The old bricks are a part of the original structure from the 1800s. The windows and doors are black metal, renovated recently, adding a nice modern touch to the historic building. It’s right off the street downtown; bustling cars flash by and people cheer in the bar a few shops down.
“They aren’tallmiserable. You’re just choosing to see them that way. Yelina and Poppie are having fun,” Jericho mutters as we pass through the doors and slip between the living people.
At first it was hard to get used to them not being able to feel me as I do them. Although we’re shoving our way through the crowd, they can’t feel or see us. The things we brush or hold are simply in purgatory only.
“Yeah, well, Poppie and Yelina are still as daffy as ever,” I grumble. The foyer is packed, and as hard as I try to hold onto my grumpy mood, it’s truly not possible in this environment.
The merch shop is handing out T-shirts left and right as many eager people reach for them. Their faces are alight withhappiness and glee. Chanting has already started in the central lower section of the theater, and I raise a brow at Jericho.
“I thought you said this was a Spring Performance?” I shout over the noise.
Yelina and Poppie run through the crowd and link arms with me. “I’m so happy you decided to join us this time, Lanston!” Yelina says with a big smile. I return it and it feels genuine for once. I’m glad they dragged me out of Harlow tonight. The crisp air and new faces remind me how much fun we can still have.
Jericho speaks over the two girls as they chat excitedly around me. “It’s unorthodox. You’ll see.”
God, does this man attend anything that isn’t unorthodox?
I let out a breath and nod at him. Whatever, I’m here and I’ll try my best to enjoy it.
Poppie holds out a T-shirt for me and I take it. “I thought you’d like the skull one best.” She winks at me and I grin. It’s a black shirt with a wash-fade design. A skull in the center, not gratuitous or obscene. It’s more sad than anything—half broken with a rose coming out the top of the fractured bits.
“Thanks,” I say as I take off my leather jacket and pull the T-shirt over my long-sleeve black muscle shirt. It feels like a throwback to high school when this was an actual look. A smile crests my lips as I reminisce on my punk phase.
Jericho looks ridiculous in the oversized black shirt Yelina grabbed him; it has a massive heart with hands tearing it in half. With his black-framed glasses and styled short blonde hair, he looks like he should be in a suit, not wearing a concert shirt.
I ask again because,come on. “I thought this was amusical?”
