Page 41 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
I worry my lower lip, pressing my teeth into the soft flesh, and ultimately decide to check the festival.
Main Street is crowded. I’m amazed at how much can truly change in six years. This was a small-town event when I was alive. Seeing it now, it’s hardly even the same festival. The vendors have bigger, more modern wooden stands and fancy signs. The cornfield maze is two times bigger than before, and they installed mics on poles that play horror music to make it scarier.
I search the vendor stands and even the bookstore and cafe. The dance is starting soon. Where are they? My worry grows like a tumor inside my gut, heavy and burdensome on my soul. Did something happen?
The dance begins and there is still no sign of them. I walk around every couple just to be sure. That only leaves the maze.
I stand motionless and struck with fear as I stare into the one place I’ve sworn I’d never return. My heartbeat quickens and the blood rushes to my ears, making it hard to hear.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I step forward into the corn stalks.
I start walking calmly but after a few minutes, I’m sprinting through the fields, frantically looking for the two people I love most in the world. They aren’t here. My ears start ringing and my vision blurs.
They aren’t…
I stop in the center of the maze and crouch down as my emotions get the best of me. Did they forget? Did they not have time this year? My soul aches and weary thoughts run rampant through me.
No. Please don’t forget me. Please don’t leave me here.I press my palms to my eyes to stave off the tears, but they pool against my skin regardless. Aching and holding all my turmoil. There is no pain greater than feeling left behind. Forgotten.
My stomach curls and I vomit. It’s quiet now; the festival ended over an hour ago. I searched for far longer than I should’ve, but… it seemed so unrealistic that they’d not show up.
I lift my hand and rub the inner part of my arm, just before the elbow creases, letting my thumb brush over my tattoo for the three of us. It was always supposed to be the three of us.
The initial denial of them not being here passes and is followed by guilt. It’s not like I can expect them to come every year. They’re alive, after all—they aren’t waiting around like I am with nothing to do.
Perhaps they’ve taken the first step into moving on.And that hurts, I’m not ready.
My eyes are heavy as I ride my motorcycle back to Harlow. The sound of the doors closing behind me is loud and echoes throughout the manor.
I think to call out to Poppie or Yelina, even Jericho, but I don’t. They shouldn’t have to see me like this. I walk slowly and silently down the halls and let my fingertips drag along the chipped, gray walls. Moonlight dapples the floors of the music room. I slip inside and pull one of the blankets around myself. Then I sit at the piano where Wynn and Liam would play such beautiful songs, and I close my eyes and rest my head on the keys.
If Ophelia were with me, would I feel this low? Would it dull the pain in my chest if she were by my side, drawing her fingers over my skin? This loneliness damns me. More and more each day.
The bucket list comes back to mind, and I think about what in God’s name is keeping me here as I tap slowly on a single key. The sound echoes through the halls and drowns out the weary beat of my heart.
I think of her name over and over and the ache that lives inside me.
Ophelia.
Ophelia visits me again around Christmas. I’m not sure why, but the burden of my heart outweighs the question. Do I haunt her as she does me? Perhaps she doesn’t have anywhere else to go for the holiday—no one else to haunt and linger near. I observe her from my bedroom window, and she studies me in silence from the courtyard. Our eyes are locked in a winter dance, the silent and steady snow as our witness.
I wait to see what she will do, and she seems to be waiting for me too. After we grow tired of the suspense, she nods her head a bit, then gives a diminutive smile.
Never in my life have I gripped a windowsill so hard. Restraining myself, so as not to run after her and hold her close to my chest. I yearn for her so desperately it festers inside my bones like a cancer—the urge to let my fingertips sink deeply into her soft skin and press my lips to hers.
There’s something keeping her from me—Those Who Whisper, her demons, her fear of what lies after. She’s trying as hard as she can to keep me at arm’s length. But I’m not sure how long we can resist this call from the universe, the pull of the very atoms in our ghosts.
We will collide, this I am sure.
“Come on, you can’t stay here alone,” Yelina complains as she tugs on my arm. I give her a flat stare and shake my head. She’s dressed in a corduroy brown jacket with denim jeans and a hat that says “Adventure” across the top. She readjusts the bag over her shoulder and gives me a pleading look.
“You guys are only going to be away for a few weeks. I’ll be fine,” I say stiffly, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket. The truth is, I’m not sure if I’ll be okay. I’ve never been alone for that long before. Even though they’ve begged me to go with them, I can’t find the will to leave. I’m just so fucking tired. No matter how long I sleep, or how long I stare into the dark, rest will not sink into my soul.
Poppie juts out her hip and sets her hand on it as if I’m in trouble. Her oversized yellow coat screams “tourist!” and her suitcase is unreasonably big for traveling. “Are you sure?” she asks sincerely, looking between Jericho and Yelina for their input.
Jericho studies my face with a look of worry, and then smiles. His attire is much less flashy, a black zip-up sweater and black jeans. A small backpack is secured to his shoulders. “He’s fine; he just needs to find himself in solace.” They both shoot him a glare and he laughs nervously before adding, “Lanston is fine. I know he looks tired, but he’s going to attend the Spring Performance again, right?” Jericho’s voice has a curious, insinuating tone behind it.
He wants me to see Ophelia again.I want to see her again too.
