Ghost of Mine

I wake up with a jolt. I sit in my bed and stare straight ahead. My dream comes rushing back – flashing before my eyes in odd, blurry images.

He was kissing me. He was holding me. He was telling me all these things that I couldn't comprehend, but somehow, I understood everything.

I don't know what he said, but the way he said it...
It was so vivid. It was so real. I didn't have to hear a single word, I barely even had to hear his voice; I just had to look him in the eye.

I looked him in the eye. I saw right into his eyes. They were hazel with this patina edge to them. Sorta green in a golden way. They were so gorgeous.

I gently poke out my tongue and lick my already moist lips. They're slightly swollen and kinda taste like blood, but not completely.

I suddenly snap into reality and realize that I'm staring at the hole in my wall. It's the hole where I found the journal. Frank's journal. I can't believe I haven't closed that hole back up, yet. I'm sure there's a bunch of ants, rodents, woodlouse, cockroaches, termites and spiders living in the walls of this old house, and not closing that hole is an open invitation for them to come out and bring their friends along.

Come out.

Frank never came out. He was obviously gay, but he never told anyone. At least he's yet to tell anyone on the page I'm on, which I'm guessing is page 40 or something. I don't know. I don't even know how many pages there are or if there's another journal lying around somewhere, but I'm determined to read this one.

I'm guessing this is the only one, though. I skipped ahead and read the end. It's like reading the end of a book before you've even begun with the beginning. You know how it's gonna end and then, with that knowledge, you read the entire book differently.

Like, if you watch a movie again, one where the main character dies at the end, then you see it entirely different. Every word that persons says becomes like wisdom to you. They suddenly mean so much more.

That's what this journal does – it means so much more.

I snap back out of my thoughts and look over at my door to see if it's open. It isn't. It's still closed. No one's been in here. I would've heard it.

I swing my legs over the side and toss my duvet off, before I place my feet on the icy cold floor.
I should really get this place carpeted. At least my room.

Suddenly, out the corner of my eye, I see a shadow. It's just standing there. I turn my head quickly, but as soon as I see the figure it disappears into thin air.
It's him.

I look frantically around the room, desperately trying to see him. It was him. I'm sure of it. He's here.

I get up and turn around, looking over at my heavy curtains, then glance up at the ceiling.
I hear a grunt.
I freeze.

All I hear is my own, heavy breathing as my eyes stay fixated on the slight tear in the blood-red curtains. I wait for him to show himself again. He was here just before.
Nothing happens.

It sounded like a laugh. That grunt, it sounded like a laugh. Like he's laughing at me. Like he thinks it's funny to hide and never let me see him. Like he thinks all my frustration is just to be toyed with and played with like that little puppy of his.

I need to see him. I need for him to show himself.

“Come back,” I say loudly. My voice bounces off the walls, but not as an echo. The walls don't repeat my words. It's like they absorb them instead, and only repel the sound they came with.

The sounds keep vibrating in the room, the curtains and the sheets slowly absorbing them bit by bit.
And then it's completely quiet.

I need to see him again.

“Show yourself,” I demand. That's probably not the best way to talk to a ghost. He might kill me in my sleep now for being too bossy, but I don't think so. He seems too innocent in his journal to ever hurt anyone – intentionally or not.
“Please?” I beg. The frustration of not being able to express myself – not being able to paint what I wish to paint – builds up in me and turns into desperation.
“I want to paint you.”

I suddenly realize how stupid it is talking to an empty room, so I say one last thing before I force myself to stop and give it up.

“I need to get you out of my head.”