The Spectre of Hope

[dreamingwithfairies]

 Can a living person become a ghost?

 

He was in several places at once; an airport lobby, a forest, a city street, looking over a bridge, an abandoned theatre. In all places, at all times, he felt the same - he was gazing into the distance, nodding off, daydreaming, thinking, detaching. The world passed him by, or did he pass by the world? It was moving so fast. Yesterday he was twelve, today he was eighteen, tomorrow he will be twenty six. It was all the same.

He was a just boy when his father jumped off the bridge. He would go there every day after school, listening to the breeze, waiting for something he couldn't name.

Now at eighteen he sat by himself at a closed-down theatre where his mother used to work. He remembered her as a strong, authoritative but fair woman. She was smart. Even though she tried to treat him and his younger sister equally, he noticed she was softer to him. 

On his twenty-sixth birthday he will be seated in the airport departure lobby at 10:24am. The sunlight will disperse his thoughts and he will force himself to stare at it until tears will start welling up unbidden, sleepless eyes twitching, straining against the light whose heat will elude him. 

It's not that he was lonely. He had friends. He even had a girlfriend. He just didn't feel like he was part of anything. Social contacts, jobs, entertainment; they were tethers. Methods of survival, an Oscar-worthy performance of presence and attachment. He held onto them only because he knew letting go was dangerous. His mother warned him about it. But she held on so tight it drove her to a breaking point.

Then he was thirty-three, in a far away country, walking through a busy city street. He hasn't spoken to his sister in almost six years. He was wearing a hat and Ray-Ban sunglasses when he saw a huge billboard advertising Égoïste by Chanel, taking up the side of a tall building.

He saw that smug image of himself staring back over the shoulder of an impossibly attractive woman who was shown leaning into his neck. He remembered her as a vulgar bitch with a grating voice, but here she was someone graceful and alluring. Nothing like herself. 

Neither was he.

He was pathetically self-conscious, introverted, opinionated, moody, passive. He dedicated his life to a career in the entertainment industry - to be seen, admired, dressed and styled. The public saw his smoldering confidence, his boyish mischief, and a hint of mystique. He used stimulants and caffeine and attended social events as often as he could these days, because the moment he was left alone, his psyche would start breaking down. He often got himself into controversies and pranks in order to be seen as having something brave and true to say, even though he truly couldn't care less. He was emotionally intense and unpredictable, so he played the role of a cool guy who couldn't be fazed while the wit and wisdom effortlessly rolled off his tongue in every interview. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him, meanwhile he had done everything to run from himself, from the ghosts of the past that haunted him. Every day he thought about calling his sister, but he never did it. She didn't know his number or where he lived anymore, but at least she got to see him on television or hear him on the radio or maybe see that stupid Chanel ad.

At forty-two he will drive into a forest in the deep winter. He will get out and wander.

He didn't bring gloves because these days he had a habit of denying himself comfort and pleasure. Pain was superior - it was the only thing that truly forced him into presence, forced him into his own skin.

He found a freshwater stream and cupped his palms under the icy current. He drank from his palms and wanted to yell from the pain. His breath rose as steam as he sighed.

There was no logical reason for him to be here; he just wanted to be lost, in total silence, far away from everyone and everything. He spotted a white mink running across the snowy plane along the treeline. He had heard they were an invasive species here. Gentleness belies killers' true nature.

He stood in the middle of an open field and looked up at the sky - when did it become clear? Why was it always sunny whenever he thought about escape? Was it mockery or hope?

Could a person trick everyone they were alive and get away with it? Nobody suspected he was a ghost, but he never let anyone close enough to see through him. Not until he fell in love, truly in love this time. This was a love that threatened him and also relieved him of himself. She did not know the affect she had on him. 

Vapour swirled around his head with every exhale - each one was deep and slow. He was adept at calming breaths; it was another survival tactic.

He felt his love was real but he knew that everything that was real needed to be painful or he couldn't grasp it. She needed to know.

 

At an unknown time and in an undisclosed location, he found heaven and he forgave.