Page 58 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
The minutes pass as I hang my head, staring dully down at the dried rose.Ophelia. Do I have the strength to read something from your heart? I only gave her a laughable picture I drew, one of the pain I endured inside my aching soul. But she’s written down things that are explicit, black and white. True to her. Can I really read them? Is it okay for me to?
My back is arched, elbows set against my knees. I lift my head and look out into the storm. The sun peeks through in some places, breaking the darkness and shedding a few beams of gold down onto the angry gray sea.
I can read it with love—with understanding that perhaps only I have for her.
The twine twists as I untie it and set it down beside me. The rose remains laced between my fingers as I carefully unfold the letter.
Lanston,
You’ve inspired me, so I'm telling you a story—my story. In it, you will read many sad things, but my hope is that you will perhaps find answers to the questions that flicker through your eyes when you look at me.
I knew long ago that I was unwanted. It wasn’t one slight glare but many. Should a five-year-old know the sting of a belt? I knew it well. You learn quickly how to hide, how to plead, and, most of all, how to shut out the world.
It wouldn’t be fair to say I’m a nice person because I’m not, not really. I know I’m cold and distant. It’s the fail-safe that keeps my mind taped together in its fragile state.
Remember when I told you I was murdered?
It’s not pretty—the thorns are sharp, and they will pierce you.
This is the beginning of the end—the story of how I died.
Will you hear it?
I lower the note, crinkled where my thumb has pinched it. Seeing that my emotions must have gotten the better of me, I loosen my grip.
Who killed you, Ophelia, and why?
The rain eases and the sky shimmers with the last of the cold droplets. Ophelia’s note is snug in my pocket, waiting to be read again and again. Her rose still between my fingers, piercing my skin and drawing a slight sting.
Her thorns are prickly, but I’ll keep the cuts they leave forever.
25
Ophelia
The bed dipsas Lanston finally returns. The sun set long ago and the waves have been mild since. I dipped in and out of sleep for a few hours but now stare at the small window showcasing the glassy ocean lit up with the stars. With no lights out here, it’s as if the entire universe calls to us.
“Are you awake?” he asks quietly.
I turn and look at him from over my shoulder. “Yeah.”
Lanston grins, taking my hand and pulling me up. The sheets fall to my lap and my bare breasts are exposed, but his eyes remain soft on mine. He smooths the back of his hand over my cheek and whispers, “I want you to see something.”
He hands me a black shirt. I think it’s his, but it’s too dark to tell. I slip it over my head and follow him out onto the sun deck.
Air escapes my lips as I stare up at the night sky. There isn’t a cloud in sight tonight. The air is crisp, our breaths visible.
The sea reciprocates the stars, making it look like we are sailing across the universe, across all worlds. Could we sail into the stars? I wonder.
“This is beautiful,” I say with a hushed voice, because the stars can surely hear us.
Lanston nods and smiles at me. His eyes aren’t as dark as they were earlier. I swallow the image in my head of him reading my letter.
“Do you see the light on the horizon?” He moves to stand behind me. My skin pebbles with goose bumps as his hand skates over my arm. He rests his weary chin on my shoulder, and I follow his other hand as he lifts his finger to the line where the sky meets the sea. It’s almost indistinguishable in the darkness, but the light that brightens the small area of the sky makes itself known.
“Is that Ireland?”
He nods against my skin, leaning his head on mine. “We’ll stop in Dublin first and look at the castles, taste their potatoes, and see their libraries.”
