Ghost of Mine

Why did he do that? Why did he skip to the worst part of that whole journal?

Now, he’s gonna leave me. I wanted him to get to know me, but now he’s gonna want to put the book back where he found it and…paint someone else.

I want him to paint me!

I crouch down next to his bed and stare at his sleeping face. A strand of hair is covering his face, hiding a part of him.

I’ve been hiding in my words. Hiding in that damn book my entire life.
And death.

I never let anyone read it. Mother was the only one who knew I had it, and she never even asked if she could see it. I think she was too afraid of what she might read.

She had every right to be afraid. If she knew the dirty, perverted, shameful things I wrote in that, she would’ve disowned me. Father would’ve been told, and he would’ve killed me – and I’m not even exaggerating.

The maids might’ve known about, though, but once I found the hiding place in the wall, I bet they just thought I’d thrown it out.

I never did.

I never showed anyone the journal. I never lead any of the previous residents to it.

I only let him - Gerard.

I want him to paint me, but I want him to know who he’s painting, not just what. I’m a ghost, but I’m a human ghost. I used to be someone alive, and that someone is part of the reason why I’m here, hiding and roaming.

I want him to know it all.

But he has to find out on his own.

I reluctantly remove my eyes from him and turn away from the bed. I stare at my journal that’s been left on the nightstand. I ghost my fingers over the cover – over the letters that form my name.

A name I always felt was too formal for me. I never felt comfortable with that name. My last name signified uniqueness. It was, and still is, a rare name that people don’t know how to spell or pronounce. My middle name is exotic, but just like my first name; it’s not mine. I’m ‘the third’ Franklin Anthony Iero. It’s not my name. It’s my grandfathers. It belongs to a person I never met, but got a chance to see at my funeral. I saw a tear escape the corner of his eye. He cried, but not for me. He cried because he’d lost an heir – an asset.

I leave my journal and go to the kitchen. I was never allowed out here. Only the help was to go here. Even though it’s on the same floor as the entertainment room, I was never even allowed to peek in.

I did it anyway. I was out here every day when mother had her piano lessons and while father was out inspecting his property. He always tried having me come with him, but I always came up with some excuse – either blaming my private teacher, Mrs. Pumpernikkel, for giving me too many hard math problems, or claiming that my riding teacher, Mr. Harry, wanted me to go riding on my own.

I usually did the latter anyways. It was a great way to see my crush – my stable boy.

I think I have a new stable boy.