Page 8 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
That strange man looked at me with so much pain in his eyes. He was one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever laid eyes on. His eyes were warm and hazel, enriched with many colors that I’d forgotten were real in this dreary world.
I stop walking on the bridge and glance up. Someone is standing on my bench and moving toward the edge. Panic rushes me and I surge forward to try to stop them from jumping off, but as I get closer, my steps slow, and I realize my panic is senseless.
It’s the ghost from earlier.
That hauntingly handsome man.
His face is tilted toward the sky, his sharp features etched like a sculpture, smooth and cold. The black leather jacket he wears fits close to his muscles, and his baseball hat is worn-wash ebony. Thicker, more pronounced black stitches make the hat look vintage.
I circle behind him silently and he doesn’t seem to notice. A smile crests my lips as I pluck one of the red roses and step up onto the bench to stand beside him along the edge.
“You are certainly a curious man, aren’t you?” I say, trying to keep any interest out of my voice. I suppose fate finds a way to weave even phantoms together. A beautiful man like him can’t be good news. I’ve lost all the blood in my veins before to one like him. Men are coy like that, seeming entirely innocent before snatching your heart, splaying you out for all to see—spilling secrets that were meant only for them.
He startles and gazes down at me like I’m a sight to behold, those wondrous hazel eyes flickering as he takes me in the same way I do him. His lips are a soft red, like he’s cold and in need of warm heartfelt kisses. Light brown locks of hair caress his forehead, peeking down from beneath his cap.
I want to touch his face and run my fingers down each and every groove and divot that lifts over his bones. To feel how soft his skin is and how warm—oh, that’s right. Nothing in death is warm. I forget sometimes, especially now as I look at someone who radiates like he does. A defiance of death.
Is his skin robbed of warmth like mine?
Something inside me says I don’t want to find out. Certain things are better left unknown. Forever a mystery. I think I’d rather never know.
He doesn’t say anything, but there’s so much curiosity and warmth in his gaze.
I knew he was strange, but I think I like that about him. He is silence in the form of flesh. He is a damaged soul. He is one who thinks so fervently that he finds his thoughts suffice for unspoken words, perhaps.
I like him.
Men like him hear things that most cannot—whispers of other’s hearts. The sadness in his eyes and the dark circles that cradle the gates to his soul elude as much.
My lips curve into a weak smile, and I turn to face the edge of the bridge, clasping the rose tightly to my chest as I lock eyes with him. He looks confused for only a moment, then his brows furrow and horror falls over his lovely face as I tumble backward and down toward the dark, deadly waters below.
A leap I’ve taken so many times.
Down, down, down. Into the depths.
I hold the rose close to my heart, keeping my eyes on him with little expectations. No one has ever jumped after me before; I mean, why would they? No ghosts who are stuck here are so careless that they’ll indulge in the insane, morbid side I have to offer—the leap of hope I take alone.
But he does.
My eyes widen as I watch him jump after me. The lace and rose petals of my tattered dress billow and my hair lashes with the wind, surrounding me in pale colors, while he, above, is a beacon of light.
The way the wind caresses him as he reaches out for me is like a ballad. One that I’ve danced to a million times over but never quite found the right footing to. His light brown hair is chaos and his eyes are a storm of greens, blues, and dashes of yellow. A parchment of sorrowful words written and scrawled—he reminds me of such a somber, nostalgic song—one of sadness and death.
One never known.
He is a ballad of phantoms… and, perhaps, one of hope.
I stare at his unmatched beauty, unable to break this enchantment we’ve found ourselves in as we fall toward the dark water.
He jumped—as if he’s contemplated the very thought so many times before as I have. And there’s something so harrowing about that thought. He craved death once.
Souls shouldn’t have to suffer such ruination at the gritty hands of the world. A cold and heartless plane of existence. It took me, and wasn’t that enough? I don’t know this man, but why did it take him too?
His hands wrap around my shoulders, and he doesn’t hesitate to pull me in eagerly, pressing my face against his chest and holding my ghost as if we’ve been falling for centuries in a timeless dance.
Reaching.Yearning.
Listening to the same sad song on repeat and never quite finding the other until now. Until death.
