Page 64 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
I let out a soft sigh.
My eyes drift over to a row of books labeled with different religions. There is a framed image by the section of a womansurrounded by demons; fire consumes her and the pain in her expression is palpable.
Weariness drags into my lungs as I stare at the torture depicted so mercilessly.
Is this what I fear?Where the bad people go.
Is this why I’m still here?
We stay at the library for the rest of the day, watching people come and go—ignorant of the phantoms that observe them. I search for Mr. Briggs in history books, but I can’t find a thing about the man. It stings my heart, but perhaps that phantom stuck in the cathedral has already forgotten our promise. She seemed aloof enough. Selfishly, I hope it’s the case. As Lanston mentioned, we can’t stay long, but it doesn’t stop the guilt.
I spend the remaining time writing Lanston the second letter of my story and fold the pages into my pocket. He uses up at least five pages in his notebook before finding me and letting his shoulders drop with weariness.
“Ready?” I ask, letting my head fall to the side a bit as fatigue tugs on my eyes as well.
He nods and offers me his hand.
We find an empty dorm room on Trinity’s campus. The bed is stripped bare, the closet vacant. Lanston sets his coat over the bed and lies down, lifting his head expectantly for me to follow.
I linger in the doorway, rubbing my thumb over the pages I wrote for him to read tonight. We haven’t spoken about the first letter. Nor his drawing.
But I want to watch him read it tonight. I have questions about his picture too, the hurt behind it. The story that it drew breath from.
Lanston quirks a brow and sits up. Both his suspenders are off his shoulders now and he looks serene in this state of disarray. The dim light catches on the swell of his lips. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
The letter feels heavy in my hand as I pull it from my pocket. His eyes lower to the pages and a smile awakens over his sleepy features.
“I want to watch you read it.”
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches over the edge of the bed and into his bag. A torn page is already folded and he finds it quickly, giving me an innocent grin. “Guess we had the same idea.”
28
Lanston
Ophelia sits beside me.Our legs touch and share warmth between us.
“You first,” I say nervously and pass her my torn page. One of the things I love most about art is that it’s very open to interpretation. I needn’t explain all the darkness behind it. People feel or see what they want—what they need to see.
She gently takes the folded page from me and stares down at it as if it holds the universe’s secrets. Long lashes hood her eyes.
I watch patiently as she unfolds it, eyes greedily taking in the charcoal smudges and crosshatch shading. Her face is impassive and unreadable. My legs become restless, waiting for her to say something, anything.
I drew this one from a place of rage. It has sat in my lungs, heavy and suffocating, for years.
A boy sits curled up with his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes are the focal point, encapsulating his fear and incomprehension of why he is so thoroughly beaten. Theskin around his cheekbones is bruised, darkened, and heavily shaded. A tall, dark figure looms over the boy—the taker of my soul.
Ophelia looks for much longer than I thought she would. She reaches for the boy’s face and gently smooths her finger down the paper as if she can comfort him. Then her eyes lift to mine, forlorn.
“He is just a boy.” A statement, not a question. Her voice is weak with pain.
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to quell the unwanted tears. Her face is sullen. Somber thoughts reveal themselves in the ache in her gaze and the way she curls her fingers.
She looks back down and brushes the page again. “I wish I could tell him that whatever it is he’s done, it was never deserving of this. I wish he knew that.”
Something old and mistreated in my heart cracks when I hear her say that. How I longed for another to see me, the sad boy, the unloved child. To look and see the misery in my gaze. To say,I will help you.It never came. No one wanted to see me, not until Liam and Wynn.
How many times did I call out for my mother,Please help me. Why do you allow this?And to my father,Please stop. I’m sorry I exist.
