Page 42 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
But these past few months have calloused my heart. I’m so tired, I’m not sure I have the will to leave. All I’ve done is stare out the windows, watch the snow fall, melt, and observe sprouts begin to rise from the cold, dead ground.
I nod to ease their minds. “Yeah.”
I watch from the vacant foyer windows as the three of them leave. Spring winds tussle their hair as they slip inside Jericho’s black SUV. He looks back at Harlow one last time, then to me, before disappearing inside the vehicle.
They’ve long left now, but I remain.
For a long time, I stand in the foyer. This place quickly turned into a haunted mansion in one year.It’s her fault.My intrusive thoughts say vehemently. The rational part of me knows it’s not true, but that’s when everything changed. She’s made me utterly alone. Everyone’s gone to find their way of passing and adventure—everyone but me.
I lie on the floor of the music room the first night that Harlow is empty. Sleep evades me again and my thoughts are consumed by only her, as usual. I tap the floor with my forefinger and stare up at the dark ceilings.
Ophelia Rosin.
The next day, I take my crotch rocket out for a drive. At first, it’s aimless; I take turns and roads as they come, but then I realize I’m heading toward Ophelia’s hiding place. I park at the old Trail Closedsign and walk up the path; through the trees with their somber whispers.
At the peak, in the dusk, I decide that I will see her perform. And I won’t let her slip between my fingers this time. I’ll hold on and bring her to her senses and make her see that whatever is happening between us is not nothing. That we must finish what we started a year ago and embark on our final journey.
It cannot be ignored any longer.
18
Ophelia
A lovely Boston Fernsits at the corner of the sidewalk, abandoned by a tenant in a downtown apartment complex. I crouch down and smooth my hand over the wilted ferns. Sadness draws at my heart in the abandonment of it.
“I’ll bring you home,” I whisper to it and carry it back to the opera house.
I think of Lanston as I walk across the bridge. It’s always him occupying space in my mind and making my chest ache. His curious eyes and the rise of his lips each time he sees me. The lovely kisses his lashes leave across his cheeks.
My eyes skirt over the bench by the rosebushes. Ever since he visited, I make sure to check the bridge earlier in the day. I’ve found that I am waiting patiently and hopelessly for my beautiful ghost to return. Even though it is me who left and keeps him away, I crave his presence like darkness wants for light.I am the moth,my eyes linger over my tattoo,he is the butterfly.His light is blinding.
I have to shake my head to clear the thoughts of him away. He hasn’t come, not since then. He didn’t come outside when I visited months ago in December, so why would he show up now? I pushed him away and away he’s remained. The cold stare he gave me chilled my veins that night.
But one thing is sure. We are tied together. Tethered. Manacled. We cannot part.
The longing hurts worse than any heartbreak I’ve endured—I think it’s because I know he’s as starved for me as I am for him. It is I who keeps us apart.
He’s not here.My legs slow as I reach my home.
I set the fern next to its new plant family and lie down on my worn red sofa, exasperated from thinking and hoping. Each day he’s not on the bridge, I lose more of myself.
My annual performance is tonight, but the thought of him not being there frightens me. Tonight will mark one year since we met—since my world halted and everything I loved about being a phantom ceased.
Because after him, I found that there is nothing to love about being a phantom if I cannot be near him. The fear I once felt so immensely of facing the awaiting darkness has waned. I think I would face the nightmares and the punishments if it meant I could be with him.
I sigh and let my head fall to the side.What a mess I’ve made.A shadow flickers across one of the boarded-up windows. My breath catches in my lungs, stillness and fear rising through my veins.
No one comes out here to the abandoned part of the city. Has the whispering dark come for me in daylight? My heart hammers in my chest and drowns out all reason.
I sit up slowly and wrap my arms around my knees, narrowing my eyes at the door as it ominously opens—a head peers around the corner. Soft brown strands of hair fall over hisforehead as he steps inside. His hazel eyes, holding anguish and sadness, find mine and I immediately stand.
“Lanston?” I whisper his name in disbelief.
“Ophelia.” His voice is low and tense.
Emotions swell in the dusty air between us, flakes drifting slowly in the golden beams of sunlight that stream in through the darkness.
I’ve run into the arms of many men in my day. When actual air still teemed through my lungs and blood pumped wildly through my veins.
