Page 65 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
It hurts.
It rots the inside of my brain like a disease.
Ophelia reaches for me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me in eagerly, desperately. Her embrace releases the tears that I’ve kept hidden away. The warmth of her hands spreads into my aching soul and finds where I’m still so cold.
“Can you tell me more about the boy? I’d love to hear his voice, even if he’s a grown man now. Sometimes, we just need to release the broken parts of us. Unchain them and let them be free,” she whispers against the shell of my ear, her soft lipsbrushing my skin. I wrap my arms around her slowly, fisting the back of her shirt and pulling her closer. My tears stain her shoulder, and she lets them.
Ophelia hums a song I recognize as she strokes the back of my head in slow, affectionate strides. The song is “Death Bed”by Powfu. I let my head fall against her and she squeezes me tighter with her other arm, pressing a tender kiss to my neck.
It’s easier to confess things when you’re not staring into the eyes of a person you care for dearly. I don’t want her to look at me differently, but I don’t want to hide from my demons anymore. I’ve done that long enough.
“It was usually my humor that made him angry.” I start and Ophelia stills; her hand rests softly on the back of my neck for a moment before resuming the languid strokes. “But then, as I got older, it became more things that I couldn’t help. It wasn’t the trouble I caused or even the bad things I said. He hatedme. He hated my characteristics. The way I loved to learn literature and art. The hope that glimmered in my eyes as I dreamed of a life better than his. The way I smiled so easily without the weight of the world weighing me down.” I pause, thinking deeply, remembering the awful looks he gave me. “I think he hated that most.”
Ophelia pulls away only enough to look into my eyes. Her nose brushes against mine as she gazes into my soul. I’m scared to find pity there, but I’m met with understanding and a well of rage.
“Your father was a lousy piece of shit. A jealous asshole for your ability to be happy.” Her voice is the most angry I’ve heard it, and it makes my eyes widen with surprise.
“I didn’t know you could curse,” I chide her, but she dismisses it completely.
“You deserve so much love, Lanston. I hope you know that.”
I lie. “I know.”
She furrows her brows and fists my shirt, pinching my skin with her emotions on her sleeves. “Don’t lie. You… You are the most beautiful soul anyone could know. I see the bruises that have long since healed across your pale skin from abuse, the lingering thoughts of death that you bore upon yourself because you wanted it to end. You tried to die. Many times.”
I tried to die.I admit to myself, tears quietly streaming down my cheeks—many times.My eyes lift to her arm, seeing the butterfly and moth chasing each other, hiding many things beneath them that she won’t say. Not yet.
“I know that ugly pain. It yields no mercy for us, does it? I know that illness as thoroughly as I know you. It is cancerous and grows beneath a blanket of flesh, hidden because it’s not pretty. When you try to speak about it, people quickly hush you. They don’t want to see the ugly, bad things inside us. The sickness that takes many of our kind. It steals them away in the night and we wait.We wait.”She pauses, taking a few deep breaths as her eyes finally brim with tears too. “We’ve waited for so long. To be heard. To be listened to. To be understood. We’ve waited for the light. For the morning that seems to be just out of reach. And yet, we’re always reaching, aren’t we? Swaying wearily and always dreaming for that day to come.”
I press my palm to her cheek as she lets those heavy tears fall. She leans into me and I whisper, “I’ll tell you a secret, my rose.”
Her eyes are blurry with tears, but she waits for my words.
“We are the light.”
Ophelia’s eyes widen and then nearly shut as a fresh wave of emotions overcomes her. The ends of her hair are wet; her body seems colder. I run my fingers over her skin, comforting her the best I can.
“Together, we are no longer a small, insignificant candle against the dark pillars of the world. We are an inferno—agrowing, living beast that demands to be witnessed, to find our kindred souls,” I say gently.
She studies my features before murmuring, “Like phoenixes—the symbol of rebirth after tragedy.” The corner of her lip lifts into a hopeful grin.
I return the sad smile. “The real question is if we’ll ever truly fly.”
Her eyes flicker with long-lost flames. “I hope so.” She hands me her letter.
She swallows and a worried crease appears between her brows.
“Are you sure you want to stay while I read it?”
Her nod is firm.
I grab her hand and pull her into my lap. She relaxes against my chest and sighs with relief at our connection. Our fingers interlace and I hold her lovingly—how a phantom as precious as her should be held.
Lanston,
Hey you, where did we leave off? Oh yeah, the beginning of the end. The sick game death likes to play before we ripen.
Where do I start my story? I guess where it begins… when I was five, my cousin died by suicide. I didn’t understand the gravity of that yet, but my family said horrible things about her after her funeral. They said she was selfish and was going to hell for “committing the ultimate sin.” That she would burn for what she did.
