Page 74 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
“You want me to respect them? That’s fucking laughable.” I turned and continued to walk. He stomped after me. The rain had started and everything was escalating, boiling inside me.
Wouldn’t it be better if I just made this stop?
My emotions were wild, like fire loose in the forest. Burning and raging through the dry and impoverished pines. I wanted to scream and run as far as I could. My hiding place was too far away to walk to on foot and the pounding in my head was too loud.
Please stop. No more. No more.
I hit the side of my head as if the impact could make the voices stop.Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t.I firmly pounded my fist against my temple.
“Go fucking kill yourself, Ophelia. Do us all the favor.” His words were steel in my lungs. My feet ceased and I turned back to look at him. He looked at me with no love. No care.
“You don’t mean that,” I said, glad that the rain hid my tears.
His face was emotionless and colder than I’d ever seen it. Behind him stood the two people who hated me more thananyone else in this fucked up world. Weren’t they supposed to care the most? It hurts. The ultimate betrayal.
“No one likes you. You’re mean and irrational. You bring out the worst in people. Go fucking do it. You won’t be missed.”
He left it at that.
I fell to my knees. The words were crippling.
They all went back inside then. But I remained.
The voice in my head spoke loudly again, as it always had. A snake that promised rest.
You know how to make it stop.I pressed my palms to my eyes, shaking my head. But the whispers didn’t stop. They didn’t go away.
Not when I walked five miles to the bridge.
Not when I stood on the edge and stared down at the dark, rabid water.
Not when I let go and closed my eyes against the pain of the world.
Not when I walked as a phantom.
33
Lanston
There’sno corner of Ireland I leave unscathed. No castle or city I do not scour.Ophelia, where are you? You cannot leave me behind, not like this.
I shout into the cosmos until my voice dies. I return to the art park in Dublin, trying to stop people and ask if they’ve seen her, but nobody hears me.
Not a single head turns.
Not like this.
I can’t bear it.
At first, the days pass quickly, with little sleep and urgent searching. Then the weeks drag, hope slipping through my fingers like water.
The weariness tugs at my soul, begging for rest, for peace. Yet I push on, brushing the tip of my finger across our bucket list for small glimpses of light. But the illumination has faded, the paper now worn and unreadable.
I fall into ruin, searching for my rose.
Even more so when I find her final letter, slipped between the pages of my artbook. She must’ve stuck it there before I woke up after our night at the pub. My chest aches at the thought of this being the last of her I’ll ever know.
“I can’t read it without you.” I choke back on tears. The knot in my throat is too thick to swallow. I fist her letter in my palm, willing myself to open it with trembling hands.
