Ghost of Mine

That nose. That fucking nose!

Hands have never been my thing, so I know not to focus on them when I get to them, but that fucking nose is giving me so much trouble! It keeps looking so fake and not right!

The lips were easy, since they were so distinct and unique – like nothing I’d ever seen or drawn before – but that nose is so generic, yet still so refined and delicate.
And I can’t fucking get it right!

Also, I can’t get any emotion into his eyes. Usually, I’m good at getting some kind of feeling into a pair of eyes – fear, sadness or suffering – but not now. His eyes are dead and I can’t bring them to life.

When I saw him, there was a feeling in them. It was like a serene, soft look. It was so… fucking perfect.

I throw my paintbrush across the room and close my eyes. I feel a rush of need go through me, but I suppress it. I don’t need anything.
Except for drawing him.

I saw him. He was standing right there, staring at me. When I close my eyes, I see him perfectly. His eyes are the first thing I notice. They’re so clear, so easy to just look into and see through. As if I’m looking at more than just his eyes. Like I actually see what’s behind them.

He has this distinct jaw. It’s square, but at the same time it looks so rounded. It softly curves a bit inward, before a curve protrudes. It almost looks like a lump. Like he’s been sucker punched in the jaw. But it doesn’t look swollen. Especially not when the curve stops and a slope-like line leads my eyes down to his chin.

It’s so isolated, so alone. Like it could fall off at any time. And yet, it seems to fit fine right where it is, supporting the skin below his lower lip that is bulging out, as if the muscle beneath it has been used too much – like he’s been pouting too much as a child.

And then, there are his lips. They look so thin, so delicate, and yet they seem so full and swollen, as if the stable boy actually got to him.

I quickly stand up and leave the room. I walk down the hallway quickly, enter my bedroom and grab the book. I open it up to the last page.

‘I can’t take it anymore. I can’t!’

I stare at the words. It’s all there is. The entire book has been filled out, and on the very last page, those two, short sentences stand alone.

He killed himself.

I quickly shut the book, leaving my palm pressed against the rises and falls in the book’s cover. I stare the ruffled covers of my bed.

He killed himself.

As quickly as I picked up the book, I put it back down. I lean over my bed and grab the sheet. I pull them off – tug hard at the ends that are stuck underneath the mattress – and bundle them up. I walk out of my bedroom, down the hall, through the kitchen and into the scullery. I crouch down and slam the door of the washing machine into the wall before I start stuffing the sheet into it. I slam the door shut, pour the powder into the machine and start it up. The machine rumbles to life and I stare at my sheet and wait for the water to drown it.

I need to turn on the water.

I throw myself over the counter next to the machine to reach the water tap. I turn the valve and feel the water rush through the hose that’s pressed against my arm.

I step back and once again stare at the machine. I watch the water soak my sheet and make them darker than they already are. I watch the water mix with the soap and push foam to the glass of the door.

I turn around after about 10 minutes. I go back to my room, put some new sheets on my bed and take off my clothes. I lie down in my bed and bury my nose in my pillow – sniffing in the fresh smell of clean sheets.

I don’t fall asleep. I’m not tired. I’m not even sleepy. Or lazy.

I stare up at the ceiling and smile.