Ghost Story
Title: Ghost Story
Author: Winking Tiger
Date: June 13, 2002; edited December 1, 2002
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. This is a creative project, no money is being made.
Summary: When the years have passed by and the cold encompasses you, what are you truly left with—beyond yourself?
Author's Notes: This was written some time ago and I've only now gone and tried to save this from the darkness and despair of the Document Graveyard, also known as my computer. While this may not be the best piece of literature, it's still mine. And while it's always up to you, the reader, to decide about any and all pieces, keep in mind no matter how much this may, or may not, be a disgrace to English literature, I've placed my words, my effort, and all that other good stuff into this.
All words are my own, all mistakes are mine alone.
"Chapter 2" of this piece will be simultaneously posted with this, "Chapter 1", in that in reality it will be the lyrics used with this part. Therefore, while "Chapter 2" will just be lyrics, there is more story to come in "Chapter 3".
Just try to enjoy this and give feedback when you're done. You readers are the only reason this kind of stuff may see the light of day, so be good and leave feedback once you're done.
She sat watching the setting sun. As the dark and light suddenly became one, where the sun ended and the horizon began too close to tell over the other, her figure remained constant. Breathe in, exhale out, breathe in, exhale out. It was still early when the sun had made its retreat for the night; the winter had approached and grabbed hold with its icy grasps.
Life had left few marks upon her. The usual from age, the times of the world, but very few would be able to see anything beyond. Externally she had been left relatively untouched by outside forces. Her face was lacking typical wrinkles, worry lines, lines of poor habits, of smoking, of drinking, of too much sun. She had no permanent lines—of any kind, no smile lines. The world had not been kind to her; one may know if they know who the subject is. But each thing she was thrown by life only brought an even greater response from her. Anything bearable enough to survive through only added, her hide thicker, or walls even more impenetrable. "Girls Kick Ass—says so on the t-shirt," she huffed to the blowing wind, while moving inside.
The winter that was slowly approaching, sweeping through the land on its chariots of gusting winds, could now be felt safely on its journey. It was unavoidable to get caught by the cold. He had far reaches, firm grasps. But inside, as the figure was now, there was a protection. The fire, burning bright in the fireplace, splayed shadows against the room.
While seemingly away from the world, and its people—at least geographically—it became apparent to any that watched this figure was still plagued by the restraints that still held influence, upon a person. Truly not away from anything, but one's self, the torments went on. Being left to one's own mind could be the cruelest form of torture, left to your own devices; there is only one that may and will limit the tortures. And left alone, too many times, the same things would occur each time. A pattern—a continuation of before, all of before. The same questions, the same answers. Such little oil for such a great want for light—little light would do no good when such great wanted is found in one so badly.
The fire's light shined upon the walls. The room suddenly became smaller, leaving no other option but retreating within one's self. Instead of letting old habits die, they returned—fierce. Opting to be of a stronger will, she leaned closer to the fire. She followed the path of the high road, staring the fire head on. Staring into the flames, watching the wood burn away—to ashes—to nothingness, she looked for answers there.
All those years ago, that bitter winter, what had really happened? We are left without answers, but they lie in one person here. They may only be found from the figure, the masked and shadowed frail figure, waging battles in the silence. As weak and frail as she may seem to those that can see her now, the answers may only be found, now, from her. "That time … that thing … those chain of events—that man. What did I miss?—when it all went down," she questioned to the flames. Receiving no answer from her companions, she instead, spoke of the universal answer—the common answer and response, of this question, "I don't remember," she quietly whispered. As usual.
"Too old," she spoke barley beyond her own lips, wrapping the jacket closer to her body. No match against the winter, or her traitorous body—its genes. She left, left that city, that predator, that time—that same man. "So far away … still the same," she mused, looking out the frosted panes. Time and space had left things apart, a greater rift found between each day than the prior. Growing, growing every mile, every year, every tear, every thought. "Why should it matter?" she questioned the flames once again—only receiving the same reply. But this time, this time, she gave the correct answer, the truth she knew—that could come only from her, "I must have loved him."
What makes things go, what makes them stop? "Why did I leave—why didn't he follow?" Of course, we know, she only added to her walls. 4-inch, instead of 2-inch. "What makes it all matter? Why does it still matter?" Time had yet to leave a great enough wake to throw him off her mind, allow her a dark enough space to hide—the light always penetrated through.
"Why do I always come back?" Why not continue to flee? Afraid, is now the apparent reason; afraid of all that can be held dear. "Afraid of him, yes I finally admit … I'll admit it. I was afraid of him. His love. My love. Our love. Afraid … of our love?" Seemingly aimlessly she wondered around the place—her mind—while staring out at the overwhelming darkness outside. Waiting, just waiting, for night to reach its peak, and day's light to come once again. To be left again questioning.
The moon had made its regal appearance for the night's court. It made its retreat back home for more hours of rest, only to come out again, soon enough. But the new day, still found her there.
Once more, old wounds resurfaced, bringing up blood and tears that been refused to be shed. Too important, too much to give up, to let it leave her veins and her body. Shedding, she couldn't shed a thing, she'd refused to for so long … it meant defeat, meant giving in—to her hear, her mind, the sense that had taken her hostage. "No," she conceded. "We did dance around. Wore out my best shoes too," she tried to joke. "We danced. Too much?" she questioned. Yet the question of 'Too little?' remained unasked. "But I didn't leave him in the dark," she continued. "He knew, more than I did most of the time—he always … he always knew, everything. More than I thought I ever would. Dammit, I came back!" she cried out to the empty space. Alone, once again, without even her mute flames as companions.
"Everything … everything was you," she sobbed. "I … I cared! You made, you made me care! I … I refused, I refused to get into it. But …you plead, and I gave in! Crappy world, and I revolved around you!" she shouted. "I realized, too late, what you were, what you were worth—to me. You were worth so much to me … you, you were … you were just Priceless," she finally spoke. She then quietly added, "And apparently unattainable." With that the tears came on, a faucet turned to its greatest setting. And she sobbed. Finally allowing the tears to flow freely, the tears so painful, so much her body shook—she shed tears. Though free was at a great price. Free, yes, but surely not free against herself. Or her heart, her pain—time; freedom came at a great price. Was the price too high to pay?
The last thing she'd have accepted was to come up with answers this time. Each time had turned out the same. She'd plead ignorance, refusing to let go, refusing the memories and remain tormented in the same state of self-imposed pain and punishment always found in the Jail of Max. Or rather, she amended, "The Jail of Love."
She had faced the fear this time—she'd faced what had been left unsaid for so many years. And now, now she had finally given up the answer so long waited for. So long left wishing to know the truth, the truth that had all along been inside of her.
This accomplishment, this truth finally attained was not limited to only one. With this knowledge, newfound for her, for you, for us, another always knew the truth as well. "I loved him," she said. The deep darkness having been pushed aside by flames, with the fire burning bright once more, answers were no longer sought from their heated limbs. Instead, she spoke to the flames—again, "I love him."
Her voice, her proclamation, was heard by her own ears and the fire's embers. However, this time his shadow had been leaning against a wooden frame as she spoke. He'd remained still, listening to her words, staring at her face—at the face he'd longed for, thought of, been haunted by for so long. His own face giving way to the smile that grew as the flames ignited. She had an audience, a captive audience—if only by her presence, though it was so much more than that. Logan had always, would always, hang on every word she spoke, ever action she took—everything she was. This time, it wasn't just a Ghost Story.