Page 49 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
I’d always been told sick people can’t help other sick people. That humans like us, who want to die, arebad. We just want attention.We seek attention.Surely, if everyone I ever spoke to told me this, it was true, right?
I’m bad… I’m sinful for having thoughts of dying. I’m selfish for wanting not to be here. I’m going to fucking hell if I kill myself. People like me don’t go to heaven; they said so.How many nights did I stay awake, praying to a god I did not believe in that I would wake up the next day better? I wanted to be fixed.I wanted to begood. I wanted to stop being a disappointment to those who didn’t understand the battle I was having with my brain. The chemicals, they said. The chemicals in my brain were wrong.
There was no one as sick as me, I told myself, because that’s what was preached to me.No, sick people cannot comfort each other because what do we know? But sometimes, there’s an inkling in the deepest parts of my marrow. That, perhaps, our knowing we are not bad or alone in our way of thinking does help.
I wish I knew I wasn’t the only person who felt like sitting in a dark corner and being forgotten—being dead. Of course, it’s odd and abnormal to yearn for such feelings. To not exist. To spectate without being, as we do now. So many people don’t understand. They refute the idea with their entirety because their brains process on a normal level. Their chemicals are balanced. Is that really what it boils down to?Chemistry.
People like us traverse the world alone because we were raised to believe that we have to.
Smile and pretend.
Smile and pretend. No one cares about your depression. Smile and pretend. Don’t let them see what you really are. They’ll lock you away if they see.Is that why I ignored it for so long? I didn’t want anyone to see me.
But Lanston.
Hewantsme to see him.
He wants me to know that he suffers greatly behind those precious eyes that hold so much warmth and endearment. He isn’t bad. He is not at fault for having a broken mind. How could anyone declare such a thing? I’ve never observed such divine beauty in another’s soul—such kindness.
I hear you. All the battles you war inside your head against yourself.I trace his lips with my fingers, and he leans into my hand.I see you.
But everything I want to say to him falls short. My words cannot match my thoughts. If I dare speak them, I’ll break, and I don’t want to dig up buried bones.
So, instead of saying what I truly want, I say, “I’d like to find a place like that, too. I would rest for an eternity, at last.” Lanston’s eyes flicker, not with surprise but with confirmation. Had he suspected me of being similar to him?
Our waves match evenly in this sea of despair.
“Why are you not so eager then? What is it you fear, my rose?” he says with a sad grin.
Because I’m scared.
I lean back and look out the window once more, pressing my fingers against the glass pane, cold seeping into my bones. “I told you in Jericho’s session… I’m not finished here yet.” It comes out sadder than I intended it to. What I really want to say isI want to prove that I’m a good person before facing my end.
Lanston looks at me for a long moment. We still have so many secrets. So much left unsaid and guarded.
“I’ll figure you out one day,” Lanston says, more of an oath than a statement.
I smile at that.
“I hope that you do.”
22
Lanston
In the lastfour days of travel, I’ve found Ophelia to be more inspiring than I initially thought. She tries a new flavor of coffee each morning, determined to experience things to the fullest. I even indulged her a few times, curious to try some of the fancier lattes with cream. I’m reluctant to admit that I finally see the craze behind it.
We explore the compartments, measuring how long it takes to get from one end to the next to pass the time—truly idiotic things, but our laughter rings out loud and true. We find out the hard way that phantoms can indeed still get motion sick. Perhaps it is our willingness to still feel alive that promotes such anomalies as nausea. I hold Ophelia’s hair out of her face while she throws up in the bathroom sink.
At each stop, we find new books and different foods to try. The back of the train looks more like a fortress of piled novels and empty bags of chips, blankets that we stockpiled into a bed.
“How childish my parents would think of me if they could see me right now,” Ophelia says with a breathy laugh.
We’re pressed close in the fuzzy faux-fur blankets we laid out on the floor. She has a red licorice in her hand and draws it across her bottom lip lazily. Her fingers are slender—the bones beneath create prominent rises in her knuckles. On her side, the dress caves into her midsection and lines her hip bone. I want to smooth my hand over her curves and feel every inch of her skin—the dips and valleys of her beautiful soul. We’ve kept to just kissing, but our fervent bodies seem to have a more intimate agenda. I’m transfixed for a moment, hardly hearing her.
She gives me a hard stare and I know I’ve missed something.
“Hm?”
