Page 40 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“Would you rather be physically struck or mentally abused?”
My jaw tightens and a dark, coiling sickness awakens in me. I hate both. I remember not being able to sleep from the bruises that hurt. They kept me awake until dawn sometimes. But the words. Those still keep me awake, even now.
“I’d rather be struck,” I say quietly. The admittance is like oil on my tongue.
Her eyes soften and she glances away as she whispers, “I’d rather they hit me too.”
I lower my eyes to her trembling hands. I want to set mine over them and provide some solace, but I refrain. “I wish you never had to choose.”
She takes a deep breath and narrows her eyes. “I never understood that about people. Their insistence on cruelty through words. The trickery of it.I didn’t hit you this time.No, perhaps not, but you told me I was the reason you will grow cancer one day. That I will be your undoing just for existing.” She pauses and looks at me, eyes so dull it ruins me. “At least when it’s a flesh wound it stays there. It doesn’t sink any further than my fucking bones. But when they tell me all the reasons why I’m a terrible person or why I’m worthless, those wounds infest my soul. They burn and ache and you know what happens after that? After the initial blow?”
“What?”
“Then it rots. It festers and turns into poison. The first ones aren’t so bad. You’re able to lie to yourself and bury the decay. But it spreads—it doesn’t ever stop and no matter what you try to kill it with, it remains. I’d rather they hit me… because it’s easy to hate them for it, but when they make you hate yourself—that’s hard.That never goes away.It never heals. There will always be that nagging ache in the deepest parts of your heart that whisper to you that you are vile. And you don’t know what to believe because you’ve heard it for so long. Do we not become what we’re seen as? Do we not eventually give in to the madness of it all?”
I reach for her hand this time and she only firms her lips and looks at me sadly.
“You arenotthose things, Ophelia.”
She blinks slowly. “I think I am. I hurt you, Lanston. And that’s all I’ll ever do. It’s who I am.”
I want to scream. At the stars, at anything that bore witness to her pain. Why do the loveliest of souls get stomped on? A knot grows inside my throat.She’s wrong.
“You should probably get going. It was nice to see you again though. I do love seeing you,” she admits as much and lets her eyes trail over all my features, as if trying to commit it all to memory.
Longing makes me bold. “I could stay,” I say slowly. I want to stay with her so badly. I’d even sit out here on the bench all night if it meant I could see her tomorrow. The next day too.
A sad smile crests her lips and she shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lanston.”
It hurts—the ache grows.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I let out a few sad laughs and thread my fingers through my hair. I stand slowly and let my eyes stay connected to hers for as long as she’ll allow.
She breaks our silence. “Will you come to my next performance?”
A voice cries in my head,that’s not until spring.Is this her way of letting me know she doesn’t want to see me until then? That thought feels oddly crippling.
I nod, forcing a smile. “Of course.”
“I’ll see you later, then.” A hesitant but beautiful smile. I hand her the rose I plucked and she takes it gently, not once breaking our gaze. Her eyes bear misery, and I can’t bring myself to make this harder for her.
So I whisper, “Until we meet again.”
17
Lanston
The Fall Festivalarrives and Bakersville evolves into a tourist haven.
The press ate up Crosby's slasher-film-cornfield-chase, especially with all the harrowing events that followed. So now, Bakersville has to sell tickets for people to attend, otherwise they don’t have enough parking for everyone.
My leg bounces nervously as I sit on my headstone. It’s simple—nothing flashy or extravagant. The tall oak trees that guard this place make me nostalgic. The leaves had shed in the last week; a few big windstorms cleaned them out completely yesterday, leaving the graveyard empty of color.
Where are they?
Usually, they’ve already been in town and have visited my grave by noon, but the sun is already past the midpoint and the festivities are starting.
They’ve still not come.
