Ghost of Mine
Meet
Gerard’s POV
I open the book. The spine is cracking and complaining about not having been moved in years.
It’s old. The moist of the old walls has gotten to it, but surprisingly; that’s it. No rats or mice or termites have been eating away at it.
I flip through the first few blank pages – slowly losing hope of it containing anything of importance – when a page with writing suddenly appears.
The handwriting is messy, yet somehow proper. Most of it is in italics, but sometimes it seems that the writer has given up on the looks of the writing and just written the way he wanted.
‘Finally, I have got one of these. Mother says they are only meant for girls, but I never considered myself much of a man anyway.
Since I know Mother will never find this, I don’t see reason for writing in beautiful italics. I hate that style of writing. It hurts my hand.’
It’s a diary.
I look at the cover again – the spine complaining about the movement.
Franklin Anthony Iero III
It’s his diary.
‘I am not quite sure what girls write in these books, but mine will be different no matter what, so I have no worries.
I am sure Mother would be pleased to hear that. She always says that ‘worries bring you nothing but wrinkles’. She has more wrinkles than my Shar Pei. I have yet to name him. Mother keeps suggesting Italian names, but I find French names more to my liking. Perhaps Gerald. He could look like a Gerald. Or at least a name with a G.’
This is kinda freaky.
I feel a draft on my shoulder. I shiver a little.
‘Maybe I should just call him G. For now, at the least.’
The draft hits my shoulder again – harder and colder now.
I look down at the book as I gently close it – the spine staying quiet this time. I run a few fingers over the name.
Franklin Anthony Iero III
I put the book on my nightstand, before I get up to get something to eat – my stomach feeling incredibly hollow.
I open the book. The spine is cracking and complaining about not having been moved in years.
It’s old. The moist of the old walls has gotten to it, but surprisingly; that’s it. No rats or mice or termites have been eating away at it.
I flip through the first few blank pages – slowly losing hope of it containing anything of importance – when a page with writing suddenly appears.
The handwriting is messy, yet somehow proper. Most of it is in italics, but sometimes it seems that the writer has given up on the looks of the writing and just written the way he wanted.
‘Finally, I have got one of these. Mother says they are only meant for girls, but I never considered myself much of a man anyway.
Since I know Mother will never find this, I don’t see reason for writing in beautiful italics. I hate that style of writing. It hurts my hand.’
It’s a diary.
I look at the cover again – the spine complaining about the movement.
Franklin Anthony Iero III
It’s his diary.
‘I am not quite sure what girls write in these books, but mine will be different no matter what, so I have no worries.
I am sure Mother would be pleased to hear that. She always says that ‘worries bring you nothing but wrinkles’. She has more wrinkles than my Shar Pei. I have yet to name him. Mother keeps suggesting Italian names, but I find French names more to my liking. Perhaps Gerald. He could look like a Gerald. Or at least a name with a G.’
This is kinda freaky.
I feel a draft on my shoulder. I shiver a little.
‘Maybe I should just call him G. For now, at the least.’
The draft hits my shoulder again – harder and colder now.
I look down at the book as I gently close it – the spine staying quiet this time. I run a few fingers over the name.
Franklin Anthony Iero III
I put the book on my nightstand, before I get up to get something to eat – my stomach feeling incredibly hollow.
♠ ♠ ♠
Hope you still wanna stick around and read. =D