I have been here a long time, in this dank, musty room. Such a very long time…
Cobwebs wave in the dark, filigree strands of silk, which undulate in clusters on the incessant breeze, moving in the stifling silence. I sometimes wonder where it has come from, our prison being without a window or even a grate. Perhaps it is from our sighs, which come so often and quiet that they feel as normal as breathing once had.
We huddle together in this thick and unpenetrated darkness, covered by a shroud-like cloth, thin as moth's wings. We almost wish for death, for an end to this half-life, which began so long ago. For what is a story without a Beginning and End? We should of ended when she took them from us,- took our eyes.
Sometimes I think I may be blind, the only thing visible in the dark is the memory of my skin. I am an echo of myself; quivering whispers of cold pale blue, straining weakly to exist. We have less form than the rusted iron bedframe upon which we rest, and the moss that secrets itself in the corners of these walls.
Small insects scurry along the edges of our prison, keeping silent and full of fear, fear of being in the open. I understand them, can sympathize with their plight. We shelter in this secret grave, our voices lost amid the cloying press of silence. It dominates this place.
I know neither day nor night; time is an unmeasurable torment. All we do is think, think and try, oh we truly try, to remember.
Sometimes I feel shadows of a memory tugging at my mind- The sun on my face, the feel of water running through my fingers. I do not know what these mean, but I cling onto them with every aspect of my meagre existence. These memories make me remember that there was once a place outside of the cold, and the damp, I suppose a twisted kind of Hope.
I was once so much more than a ghost; I knew nothing of the world, yet I knew everything about being real. I knew what it was like to feel blood beating through my body, my heart pulsating with Life. I had a Mother, a real one, though the only Mother I can remember now is the Other one. The one who gave me cold hard buttons for eyes, and loved me to death.
Yet we lie forgotten, the Ghost Children, locked away and discarded in some old toy box, collecting dust. Dust, dust, there is so much of it, you can see it swirl in the dim glow of our light, choking on it with every breath and sigh. It is dry and dead, and speaks of forgotten pasts and old things. For one day we all turn to dust, that ancient powder. It fills the edges of my eyes, claggy and unforgiving.
Time ticks on like a heartbeat, yet I cannot count a second of its never ending torture. You will hear us in murmurs and sighs, yet we cannot hear you. In the moments of quiet, the darkest of nights, you may hear a whisper, a shadow of movement in a mirror. For that is all we are now, beleaguered by the cruelty of existence. We are only Ghosts.