Ghost of Mine

Try

I stare at the blank canvas in front of me. I try to imagine where the lines are gonna be, but I keep seeing it wrong. Either the eyes are too large or too wide or too far apart, or it’s the lips that a too straight or narrow or, like the forehead, the teeth that are too long.
It all comes out wrong, even before I’ve begun painting.

So I give up. I put the paintbrush down and walk over to my desk again and try to draw him.

Him.

He’s like a ghost haunting my mind – a soul that just won’t let me go. Sometimes, his face will appear clearly in front of me, and though it’s only for a split second, it always leaves me itching for a pen.

I need to get him out of my mind and onto that canvas, but I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.
It’s time like these I miss my booze and drugs. I’ve tried everything – mixed everything. My brother got me to stop. Once he found me for the third time, he shipped my ass off to rehab. That was perhaps the best thing that had ever happened in my life. During rehab, I drew and painted and sculpted a lot. There was an art room at the institution, and I spent every day in there. After a few months, the staff decided to let me stay in there after hours, and for the last month, I even had my own key to the place. I got so much work done.

It’s the only reason I could afford this place. I send a few of the pictures and drawings back to my agent who searched the market for a potential buyer. He found not one, but two. One buyer was an art show owner who wanted to buy most of my paintings and the few sculptures I’d done, while the other buyer was a comic company. The latter sold the most.

I still have a few of the paintings from my time in rehab, which hang on the walls around the house. They all remind me not to fall back and that even the worst can change.

Yet now, even as I’m staring at the first painting I did during that time, I still want a drink. Just a little one. Just a small glass of scotch rotating in one hand while I smoke a cigarette to calm my nerves. I might not drink the scotch at all – just holding it would be just fine.

I get up from my seat and walk to the kitchen. I pull a cognac glass out from one of the cupboards and start my search for the one bottle of vodka I’ve hidden somewhere in the kitchen. Even though I came here to escape my old life, I still brought a bit of it with me. Just for safety reasons.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’ve fallen in a few times before. I usually try not to, but sometimes I can't stop it. At times, it even seems like I’m fighting my own arm; as if my mind is holding on to it and shaking it to keep it from pouring.

I reach the top cupboard in the corner nearest the leaking window and find the smooth bottle. I pull it off the shelf, but on my way down I drop it.

But I don’t.

It flies across the room and hit the wall opposite to where I am.

I slam my butt onto the counter and sit completely still. I can’t breathe. My heart is still. My eyes are wide.

There’s something here. There’s definitely something here. I didn’t throw that bottle – it was ripped out of my hands and thrown by some…invisible force.

I try to swallow, but my throat is glued tight.

I’m shaking. The glasses in the sink are jingling. I still can’t breathe.

My wide eyes scan the room, but I see nothing. My ears are on edge, but there’s nothing to hear.

Something touches my cheek. I flinch away quickly but when I look to my side, there’s nothing. Or no one.

I close my eyes.

I’m going crazy. I’m just going crazy. There’s no ghost. There’s no evil spirits or invisible forces in this house. It’s an old house, but it is not haunted. I’m just going crazy.
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Sorry for being so late with this update. Been sick as fuck. Thank you for still reading! =D