Phantasma

There is a phantom that makes his home in the dust and cobwebs of my bedroom, a poltergeist flitting in and out of sunbeams and bumping in the dark. I can hear him sigh my name in the back of my mind every day at noon; I can feel him ease down onto the arm of my chair to read over my shoulder the newspaper, and I know the door opens just a little too quickly every evening when I come home. When the pages of my book refuse to stay open, when all my houseplants begin to wither and die, or the cat goes galloping down the hallway in a random panic, I know that he is restless. His presence lingers around me, heavy like an uninvited guest, but he always welcomes me home with the open arms of an old friend.

He keeps me awake at night when he cries, terrible, awful, heaving cries, coming from the darkest corners of my bedroom. Some nights, I can feel his salt tears on my cheeks, leaving cool colourless trails down my hot heartbeat skin, whispering like autumn winds past, or his fingers trailing across the bony bumps of my hips, turning once-rosy skin blue and rotting, deadening under his airy gray touch. He sings sweet nothings of a time long ago to me in the dark hours of the morning, his voice soft as cold September rains. When I close my eyes I dream of him, his face flush with colour and the sun dancing through his eyelashes, his smile a night terror I can no longer start at. I awake, and there too is his face, grinning out of the darkness and relishing the circles of purple he puts beneath my eyes. On hot midsummer nights, he slips a knife between my shoulder blades, a sharp sliver of cold biting between my vertebrae, popping them apart and relaxing all my muscles, stinging and burning where his poison fingers probe my wounds for my bloody essence that he seeks to make his own. I wake with bruised flesh, hues of purples and blues and browns, where his hungry hands have grabbed and pulled at my limbs in an attempt to make me his.

He lives in dismal grayscale, and I in ghastly technicolour. He cannot find his place within my watercolour world. He begs me to recall his name when his hands gently caress my shoulders while I make breakfast, three syllables that tumble across the tongue in shades of red and orange. He queries after the colour of his hair while I brush my teeth in the bathroom mirror, toying with once-black tousled curls now white and streaked a grey translucence. He asks me desperately to remind him what colour was his favourite when he still lived as I change out burnt lamp lightbulbs, staring at me with empty eye sockets where once eyes so dark a brown they glittered black resided, deeper than the deepest outer space. I remember falling into those eyes for the first time, drowning in them, feeling that I could both know everything about him and yet leave him a sparkling enigma all at once if I just let them wash over me like a gentle deep-ocean wave. I floated content in the great voiding depth of those eyes, never once suspecting that they hid a raging riptide, a famished black hole, that they had trapped me as a pitcher plant traps a beetle, feeding off it for days.

On my bad days, I ignore him, and he screams at me, a terrifyingly loud and angry bass, like an upset child with the voice of a man, and he opens floodgates that force me to remember everything I push down deep inside. Our play at contented coexistence comes to a screaming halt, giving out a dying gasp of sad summer air that ushers in the cold of autumn with it. On those days, my hair turns white and falls out in clumps, more fine lines around my eyes crease, and I become older and slower and quieter while he stays young and powerful and angry. Later, the colour returns to me cheeks and lips, but I feel a little more tired inside, and in the bathroom mirror I mark the growing transparency of my own skin, knowing I will join him soon and render him content. He cannot give up his living past, and I cannot reconcile what he once was with the thing he has become. It will be the death of me.

The saturated colour of my eyes, the eyes he always loved so dear, dulls every time his fingertips trail my face, never to return. What he touches, he ruins, just as I once ruined him. And I want to leave, I want to, I want to, I want to run away and never look back and never be found and never relive his horrors again—but he is forever bound to me, holding on to that pre-summer bliss of our childhood, when we were two imperfect souls finding perfect solace in one another, reveling in what we were, what we could have been, what we planned to be.

I can bury his skeleton in my closet, but I can never outrun his ghost.

***

PLAYLIST:

The Best Idea I Ever Had—Sew Intricate
Heaven in Hiding—Halsey
I Knew You Were Trouble—Taylor Swift
Somewhere Else—Artist VS. Poet
Million Dreams—The Greatest Showman soundtrack
Unbreakable—Artist VS Poet
Summertime Sadness (cover)—Megan Davies
Edge of Seventeen
I’m Not Dead—P!nk
Saviour—Rise Against
Devil’s Backbone—The Civil Wars
Everybody’s Fool–Evanescence
Apologize—One Republic
Dancing with a Wolf—All Time Low
This Means War—Marianas Trench
Ordinary World—Joy Williams
Man Overboard—Blink-182
Erase This—Evanescence
Ghost—Ingrid Michaelson
Outlines—All Time Low
Oceans—Evanescence
Dearly Departed—Marianas Trench
B-Team—Marianas Trench
Young and Menace—Fall Out Boy
Eyes Like Yours–Shakira
Amnesia—5 Seconds of Summer
Nina—Ed Sheeran
Down—Blink-182
Grand Theft Autumn/Where is your Boy Tonight—FOB
One More Night—Maroon 5
Outer Space/Carry On—5 Seconds of Summer
Dark Side of your Room—All Time Low
Rhythm of your Heart—Marianas Trench
I Miss You—Blink-182
Daddy Lessons—Beyonce
Don’t—Ed Sheeran
A Drop in the Ocean–Elenyi
Nightmares—All Time Low
Call Me When You’re Sober—Evanescence
End of an Era—Marianas Trench
.
(BONUS: The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes—Fall Out Boy)

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Pt. 3: Nuance.

You and I met on summer’s sunny morning

Where sunflowers dance in zephyr,

And, swirling round, the fae

In yellow skirts, soft as magpie’s feather,

Are always upwards soaring.

Amongst the fields of plenty,

As clouds made the sun remnant,

You picked a cadmium bouquet,

And looked to me with resentment;

I, at you, with contempt, my hands, empty.

Pt. 2: Nostalgia.

I once was a girl that lived by the sea

In my mind,

With rattled bones of white.

That girl never ate peaches.

That girl dreamed saltwater dreams.

 

She would watch the waves break against the rocks

And gulls soar

Against gray skies.

Her veins were violet and gold,

Her skin was blue, and cold.

 

Pt. 1: Nectarines.

My skin is not the colour of peaches,

But of nectarines;

White flesh, blue spider web veins,

Thin, like paper,

Smooth, like vapor.

 

My skin is soft, but not supple.

It is unyielding;

Teeth have tried to pierce this skin

To taste my blood

And failed.

 

A Brief Hiatus

Looking on this site in retrospect, it should be noted that I was encouraged to create a blog to put my work out there in the ether of the Internet by many of the overwhelmingly supportive teachers I had in my high school days. I did so, but was entirely disheartened after letting it fall into a sort of angst-ridden ruin of vents and emotionally-fuelled drama. While the majority of what has been published here are works from my high school English days, I have since removed many of the incoherent ramblings that were posted as products of my looking-back-to-the-past-and-being-sad-about-it sort of phase. These things do not, and did not ever, represent me as a person or an aspiring writer, but I’m glad I wasted some time on them. I’ve even come to dislike the domain name of this blog, but can’t bring myself to change it because 1-I’m technologically too challenged to and 2-never have the words “the shadows of yesterday” been more apt than in the situation of my entirely bizarre little online portfolio. I have been on a journey of true self-discovery–in fact, I still am, and am entirely happy with my direction. I feel like I can write again (perhaps not frequently, but frequency is not what ultimately matters). All of my old writer’s block is gone, I have moved on from the past, and I have gained an education well enough to resume putting things out into the world.
To you, my reader, whatever your origins may be–be you my family, my friend, and old mentor of mine (if so, you’re still my teacher and you always will be), or one who stumbled across my little blog at some point during its creation, I’d like to thank you for sticking around through my little hiatus. Things are coming for you from me, though I’m not sure I would call them a reward for your patience–you’ll have to be the judge of that.
Really, you can probably expect more of the same.

2014 In Review, Courtesy of WordPress

I thought this was interesting, considering I’ve only been posting my work here for a year, and sporadically at that. My total stats may be humble, but I am flattered none the less!

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 10,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Prison Cell

The skies had quickly become overcast, more quickly than I could have imagined possible. The stars that had burned so brightly, the crescent moon that illuminated the city streets, had all but blinked out, plunging the world into a sudden, impenetrable darkness that the street lamps fought valiantly to overcome.
It was when I was walking through the deserted streets, eyes cast warily to the skies, that I heard it. A jolting bang, a shortened scream. Footsteps rapidly disappearing into the night.
I found her on the corner of seventh and 12th avenue, staring up at the hidden heavens. Serene, quiet, and utterly broken. My hands worked faster than my brain, but I could hardly stem the outpour of blood flowing without precedence from her stomach to the sidewalk. Before I knew what I had gotten myself into, her head was cradled ever so delicately in my lap and my hands aiding hers in pressurizing the wound. It felt like I was walking through a dream.
In the darkness, she looked at me at last. And strangely, smiled—I could not bring myself to smile back.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied in my trance.

We had never met.
Her frail fingers trailed up my jawline. She laughed, a rasping and gasping laugh riddling with pain and laced with coughing that pushed blood from her lungs to her mouth to her lips.

“You have eyes so deep I feel myself drowning in them,” she said quietly.
I couldn’t reply. My mind grasped at every word in that sentenced.
“The last man I met with eyes like yours, I fell in love with.”
And she laughed again as she painted the cement crimson.
“Don’t worry. Paramedics are coming. You’ll be okay.”
“Your voice is so deep. It’s like a drum, has anyone ever told you that? It just resonates in my chest. Can you sing to me?”
Despite myself, my cheeks flushed. “I can’t really sing. I don’t know any songs.”
Instead of replying, she shuddered in her agony. When her eyes closed, I thought I had lost her. But she opened them again, and swallowing blood stared up at me once more. Her fingers grasped in their frailty at my toque, pulling it from my head. Pre-winter air bit at my ears as one finger curled my hair for a moment before dropping to her chest. She smiled easily, happily, sighing in admiration.
“I see why you’re here now. You’ve come to take me away. Back to God.”
My heart then broke, and I watched her smile one more time before the light left her eyes a clear, unseeing ice blue and her neck lost its strength.
I let myself sit there with her, feeling her body go cold, for a long time, feeling emotion after emotion after intense emotion wash over me in a fictitious warmth I knew did not exist.

The needed someone to blame. I had not a motive, nor a weapon, or any means to speak of. All I had was a heart too big not to care. But he couldn’t be found, nor could the curséd pistol that robbed that girl of her life.
And so that’s how I ended up here, in a prison cell, with tally marks and cold, ice eyes as the only art to decorate my barren walls.
Waiting.

Juxtaposition

He was the definition of juxtaposition. This whole time, he has been both the LORD and The Adversary, the lamb and the serpent. He fought so hard to save me, a mislead child, and raise me to my salvation and a place with his Heavenly Host, all the while damning me to an eternity of fire and suffering. Give and take, give and take. He was an unmerciful God and a merciful demon, all at once, and with one clawed hand he took hold of my heart as another hand, soft and loving, caressed my face with gentle care. While one thumb traced my cheekbone with all the attention of a lover, those malicious claws ripped my forsaken heart from my very chest and squeezed with all the hate of a wronged brother. My blood dripped from between those unearthly fingers as his lips tasted mine.
My salvation.
Just as soon as he now owned what he thought his, he let me go and stole my pathetic, half-beating heart to add to an ever-growing collection. His hands would touch me, one hand burning and scratching and the other cooling and soft as water. His teeth bit into my flesh to taste my blood, and only once he had learned to memorize every valley and every mountain of my body and my mind did that angel leave me. Free falling through a cutting, icy wind he left me, and went along his merry way as I floundered to my demise. He had not even the good nature to sew to my back wings of tar and feathers.
My body hit the ground, but I felt no pain. I was a hollow shell, a hallowed hall, that no longer housed a holy spirit he could attain.
And so this is what I have become–a monster, an unholy being with his name carved into my flesh. One moment I am a calming breeze, and the next I am a raging storm. I love and I hate. I hurt and I don’t. I fall and I fly.
I walk by all the places he is said to be seen every day. I want to force him to see, force him to look at what he has turned me into–a shade, a phantom dark as night and sleek as smoke he cannot touch. An empty temple of a long-forgotten deity, standing piteously lonely and full of vengeful natures, full up of songs and hymns that speak his name in words unknown to him. And he does–that demon, he hurts, but not so much as I. Somewhere, in his care, my faint heart still beats at a distance from me, long since forgotten on a shelf in his mind. He has filled it with pins, ripped it into pieces with his hands, made it a play-thing he may have once found amusement in.
But the monster that came to live under his bed would like to have it back, to cram back into her ragged chest that she may breath again, and become the very thing he fears the most. For it is her turn to conquer him.

Angel–Part 4: Deliverance

I could see the details in his face under the stage lights as clearly as I could the day I had met him. I stared at him and he stared at me, his fingers limply holding the neck of his guitar and his jaw dropped slack. His band mates sang on, confused at his lack of participation, until one nudged his arm with a concerned look etched on his face. They exchanged a quick glance, and then looking back to me the man smiled and jumped full force back into his performance, newly invigorated with energy. Throughout the night, he smiled at me, stared at me, all while performing with seemingly endless energy. When I left the stadium, I couldn’t keep myself from smiling.

“You see,” my friend said, linking her arm with mine, “I told you I knew this would help.”

I laughed, and suggested we go for a late night coffee before returning to the hotel. She nodded her agreement, and after a moment looked at me strangely.

“You know him?”

I nod–we met by accident last fall, I say. I had no idea he was famous.
The thought makes my stomach flutter. As if what had happened in autumn hadn’t already been embarrassing, to make it worse the man I ran into had had to be famous.
There was a panic behind us, coming from the stadium. I tuned it out, assuming it to be rabid fangirls trying to get a glimpse of their idols. I was unaware that the man who looked so at home under stage lights was running after us, trying to find me. As he pushed his way through adoring fans, begging them to let him through, my friend and I rounded a corner and disappeared from the sight of the stadium. I had no idea what thoughts were going through his head, this angel I would never see again.

“Where is she?” he had asked
His friends had looked at him, confused.
“The girl,” he insisted, “from the front row.”
“Oh–the one you were making googly eyes at?” his friend teases.
“You know, man, tonight was a damn good show. Your energy was way up there–but it was like you were singing for her, not for us.”
The man stopped at the door to reply over his shoulder.
“That’s because I was.”

He was running, running, running, and we were walking, walking, walking, out of his sight and ever so slowly out of his reach. Desperately he tried to reach us as we continued on our way into downtown Toronto. I came to terms with the fact that I would never see that man again.
Until we heard some one call out behind us–wait, wait! Confused, we stopped and turned to see the man running towards us, hair flopping up and down. We stared in disbelief. Why would he track us down, when his hordes of fans were back at the stadium?
He stopped in front of me, panting. All I could do was stare. He smiled at me, a mischievous and playful smile, while he caught his breath.

“We certainly have made a habit of running into one another, haven’t we?” he teased. Still I could only stare, my friend and I dumbfounded by the circumstance in which we found ourselves.
“Well, heartbreak girl, aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

My friend and I exchanged a glance. Heartbreak girl? The man stood to his full height, towering over us, and ran a hand through his hair. He was still smiling.

“Look,” he said while staring at the sidewalk, “I know you don’t know me. But even from the moment I knocked you over back in Calgary, I knew you were sad and I knew that I was meant to have you in my life. Tonight, your being at my show is proof of that. I don’t want you to be frightened of me, and I understand that you are and that the walls you have up will take a while to tear down.”

He took my hand, cautiously, and glanced at my eyes momentarily. Still confused, I stared at him and didn’t make a sound.

“If you’ll let me, I will take away all the pain you’re suffering from. Just please, give me the chance to do so. What do you say, heartbreak girl?”

Despite myself, I felt my fingers tighten around his. He smiled with a mixture of relief and uncertainty–uncertainty for, I felt, the future, as he realized I had agreed to allow him into my life. I didn’t know him at all, only his face and his music, but how could I have resisted him? He was radiant, so willing to take a chance on a stranger of a broken, run down girl. Light seemed to emanate from his eyes, and again I found myself falling into them as I opened my lips and whispered to him in a voice he had never heard before, giving him chills I could feel reverberate through his hand and into mine. I told him my name, that was all–okay, he said and then laughed, Ray, like a ray of sunshine–and I swore as he smiled I could see his wings behind him. We invited him to join us for coffee, to which he agreed. He fit in with us effortlessly–he skipped along the sidewalk with us like a five year old child, he teased my friend about a band mate of his that thought she was cute, all while holding my hand.
And so I found myself walking into a future with an angel sent to me from heaven, and the voices in my head were quiet and the lover I used to know was sleeping with a girl I had never met. And I was okay.

Angel–Part 3: Salvation

The butterflies in my stomach had been dead for a very long time. Whether I had drowned them in alcohol or shot them with pills, I don’t know. But my life had become an empty void, a routine sickness I battled day in and day out. All companionship those little butterflies had provided me died along with them, and I had never felt so alone. My depression set in and controlled every ounce of my being–parasitic, it fed off my energy and whispered destructive thoughts to me. It reminded me how silent my phone was, it reminded me the rent was due, it reminded me how much I hated my job, it told me that food and sleep were unimportant and that I was worth nothing, just like my ex lover had said.
Life had become a nightmare I had accepted that I would not awaken from.
My phone began to ring. I checked the clock–8:30. Perhaps a little late to be ringing some one, I thought. I answered anyway and was greeted with the upbeat and enthusiastic voice of my best friend.

“Hey, August 1st what are you doing?”

I paused. “Working.”

“Book some days off–we’re going to Toronto.”
I shook my head. What? I didn’t understand.

“Look, Ray, you’ve been completely depressed since like November. You need a vacation, and I have the perfect thing to pick you back up. Book the days off.”

And before I could reply, she had hung up. Stunned, I placed the phone down and slid into bed, resolving to deal with my new found situation in the morning.
My boss fought me on the vacation days, but in the end I won the time. Overall I’d only be gone half a week, and even she could see I was too run down to continue working without a more substantial break. I wasn’t sure what my friend had in mind, but I elected to trust her on the whim.
I couldn’t feel how tired I was when we settled into our airplane seats. There was no difference to me in feeling from one day to the next–the lack of sleep and the stress of airport security had little impact on me at this point. Beside me, my friend wriggled into her seat as I clasped my hands and closed my eyes. I dozed into a restless sleep, awakened by her prodding at 7000 feet above the ground. She gave me a mischievous smile, and finally revealed her secret to me–the purpose of our trip, she said, was to see an up-and-coming band live in their first global tour. I had never heard of them, and questioned why she would take me to see a band performing across the country when I had never heard of them. Her eyes twinkled.
“Because you need them.”
Passing me a pair of headphones, she claimed I had another five hours to grow accustomed to their music. So I did.
My time in Toronto lifted my spirits. Being free of worries and stresses greatly liberated my mind from the phantom of my ex lover and the knives his words had become. By the time the night of the concert came, I found to my surprise I was excited despite my lack of knowledge of the band. It was true that their music had connected with me on a certain level, and yes had even brought me to tears–but irregardless of my excitement I couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place standing in the line of hyperactive teenaged girls waiting for the stadium doors to open. When they did, my friend and I found ourselves pushed up against metal barriers right before the stage on the floor, elbowed by shoving fangirls and getting our faces cut by posters pleading for a marriage proposal. In truth I was slightly sickened by the actions of the younger crowd around me–so head over heels for a group of men older than them. I had to pause and remind myself that I was not much older than many of them myself, and as the music started to play the screams grew louder and I found myself smiling, reconciling with myself in the familiar feeling of a buzzing concert.
As I turned my eyes up to the stage, I stopped dead. My eyes surveyed the long spiky hair, the kind face, the strong hands grasping the guitar. I grabbed my friends hand and, panicked, whispered “I know him.”
And green eyes met blue, and I could feel the words he was about to sing stick in his throat.