Page 5 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
Yelina nudges me with her elbow. “You sound like a broken record.”
The women have shirts with flowers on them and words I don’t bother reading because the lighting is dim, and the noise continues to grow louder around us.
“Oh, it’s starting!” Poppie bounces up and down on her toes, Yelina lets out a shriek, and the two of them run off together into the crowd.
I frown—I hate packed spaces. Loud music makes it worse.
Jericho looks at me and laughs like he can see straight through me. “Want to go to the upstairs balcony? I’m too old for the main floor’s energy.” I crack a smile and nod. Thank God for my dead counselor.
We find a nice empty spot near the back of the third balcony. It’s so far away from the stage that you can hardly see much detail of the performance, but it’s still loud as all hell back here.
I throw my feet up on the empty seat in front of me and Jericho leans back in his, almost as if he’s going to take a nap.
The first half of the show is entertaining; it is a musical but very dark and morbid. I find it mildly disturbing how much I enjoy that part of it. The way the actors are dressed in bleak clothing and murdering one another for things as frivolous as jealousy. Jericho spots a group of female phantoms a few rows to our left and tries to get me to join him in greeting them, but I shake my head.
“Jesus, good thing you’re dead, or you’d have like fifteen kids by now,” I grumble as he scoots by. He barks out a laugh at that.
“You’re dead too, buddy. If you won’t live now, then when will you?” he says nonchalantly before he walks over to the ladies. I watch his easy-going demeanor and how naturally it comes to him to start a conversation. The phantoms are all too welcoming and greet him with warm smiles. Their eyes trail over his shoulder and find me, curious if I’ll join him, but I look away sharply.
I sink further into my seat, becoming keenly aware of the darkness that cradles me as I sit alone. Yelina and Poppie are below, having a blast and singing along as loud as they can sinceno one can hear them. Jericho is having fun chatting with other phantoms he’ll surely be bringing home with him later.
And then there’s me.
In these times of solitude, I think of them; the three of us should be together.
As I’m about to let the dark thoughts of my loneliness take over me, a flash of purple flickers across the stage. I lift my chin and stare, eyes widening, and for the first time since the day I saw Wynn dancing in the rain at Harlow, my heart throbs.
A beautiful woman dances across the stage. She doesn’t match any of the cast members wearing drab black clothing; she’s wearing a lovely white dress with pink rose petals scattered across the pattern. The tail of the dress is long and wisps beautifully as she leaps majestically from side to side, twirling with each step perfectly in sync with the music. The ends of her dress are torn and tattered, adding a very dreary essence to her languid, long movements.
I stand from my seat and lean closer, mesmerized by her sorrowful motions. Each step she takes makes my heart beat faster and slower at the same time.
She has a pastel purple streamer that she twirls in the air as she dances, and I’m drawn to it like a fish to the lure.I have to get closer to her.
I take the stairs two at a time as I sprint down to the main floor, shoving my way through the crowd to get to the front. Yelina and Poppie notice my haste; their brows are raised in question as they watch me race to the stage.
The ethereal woman throws her head back in a graceful final leap toward the ledge of the stage before coming down and placing both of her hands on my shoulders just as I prop myself up on the edge.
My very soul ignites with something I haven’t dared to feel in half a decade.
Her purple hair wisps around us as momentum and gravity bring the strands down wistfully, but her eyes hold my gaze as steady as the sun peeking through dappled leaves, bright brown and speckled with glints of alluring green.
She’s young like I am, and what a tragic thing that is.
Beautiful, devastating, and very muchdead.
3
Lanston
The breath ceasesin my lungs, moving as if all the locks inside me have twisted. Stagnant air that was once so heavy in my airways is now free to leave but hesitant to do so.
She breathes heavily as the music to “Love Story” by Indila climaxes around us.The song crescendos, the sound reverberates through my hollow chest and raises goosebumps across my arms, then it filters to a fall off—the violins and cellos making their long last strokes over the strings. Her hair falls in kind, and we’re left staring into one another’s eyes.
This lovely phantom is the very image of tragedy. She is a ballad of mournful movements, bones, and tattered lace—a symphony unlike any I’ve endured.
I’ve lost all sense of myself for a moment, and then I realize my mouth is slightly open in awe. The corners of my mouth turn up into a smile just as her eyebrows firmly pull down, completely demolishing the magic of this moment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she says accusingly, and if it weren’t for the red blush spreading across her cheeks, perhaps I’d be able to respond faster, but I’m still so taken with her that I continue to smile like an idiot.
