Ghost of Mine

I place the pallet next to the blank canvas. I neatly line up the tubes of paint by color so that they're ready. I open the box with my brushes. I pick up a piece of charcoal from a bag full of them and put it next to the brushes on the small table. I look at the blank canvas – making sure it's completely blank – as I wipe my hands in the cloth that's hanging from the right pocket of my jeans.

I'm ready.

I walk over to the couch and pick up the journal from where I left it on the cushions. I open it up.

'G has learned how to fetch. He does not come back with the same stick that I throw, yet he does come back with something every time. Yesterday, he came back with a spider. I did not, by any means, like that. I began to scream and quickly ran away. G seemed confused at first, but he followed me; without the spider.'

“So, you're arachnophobic?”
No answer. No sign of anyone. Just silence.

'He seems to be protecting me at times. When we pass the sitting room, he quickly runs past it and then turns around, sits and waits for me. It seems as if he knows I do not wish to get caught my Mother's friends. Even when the sitting room is empty, G does this.'

“You didn't like your mom's friends?” No one answers. There's just silence.

Just answer me, please.

“You didn't like women,” I say. There's a bang on the wall behind me. I jump. I turn around, but there's nothing there. Nothing but my couch.
“You like women?”

The couch moves. My heart feels like it jumps into my throat and starts to pound harder. I swallow, but it doesn't stop my galloping heart. My breathing has gotten heavy.
The couch moved away from me. Does that mean he likes women?

“You're not gay?”

Silence.

I frown. My breathing is still heavy and my pulse is still throbbing, but I'm far more curious than scared. For reasons I can't explain, I'm not afraid of Franklin.

If it's even Franklin who's the ghost and image that haunts me.

He's not gay.

“But you liked the stable boy,” I whisper, more to myself than Franklin. Or whoever is here. No matter what, I know I'm not alone.

I look down and flip back through the pages, finding the page where he talks about his fantasy. My pulse rises for another reason than shock, but I have no time or desire to enjoy what it says.

“You must be,” I say and look up at nothing. I look around the room, but I don't look at the room. I'm trying to find him. If not the image of him, then at least the spirit.
“You liked him. You fantasized about him.”

One of my brushes move in the box. I look at it and see that the hairs are moving like someone's touching them.

“You're bi?”

The brush is pushed back into its place. The hairs are left alone. Everything goes quiet.

“How did you know?”

I look down at the journal and flip through it. I skip a lot of pages, read a few lines here and there and scan pages for girl's names or the word 'breast' or anything like that. Nothing.

For some reason, I'm suddenly desperate.

“How did you know?”

Silence.

“You can't just leave me! Tell me! How do you know?”

Silence.

I open my mouth to speak again, but stop myself.
What am I doing?

I can feel my stomach tense up and flip around. My throat feels oddly pressured as if I'm throwing up, but my mouth is completely dry.

I'm jealous.