glitter lighthouse
the things we want to do...aren't they worth living for?
Her parents keep her away from society. She is the girl in the mansion in the middle of town, peering through windows at the city square, painting pictures of the sea. Her room faces the ocean, and sometimes she sits at the windowpane and counts the ship lights. Jasmine thrives off of wishes, dreams, things that she will never have.
Most things, though, she does have. The quiet girl is surrounded by china dolls, silk dresses, everything a child would want. She has a mother and a father, a nanny, tutors, maids—she is loved.
"Jasmine will make a fine woman," her papa's friends say, laughing at the red that spreads across her pale cheeks.
She does not want to be a fine woman. Jasmine of Olivine wants to see the world. She wants to meet people. She wants to see the Ecruteak Kimono Girls, wants to dance in the firelight. Jasmine wants to live.
Instead, she stares out into Olivine and counts the people who pass the mansion.
Outside, she is a legend. Some say she is a ghost, some that she is a locked up princess, and others say that she is simply a wistful little girl.
No one knows who she is, really. Jasmine is simply a face in the window. People say that it is good fortune to see her—that if you catch a glimpse of her you will have a wish come true. The tourists sit in the square and try to find her.
Morty does not think she is a ghost. He has seen ghosts—real ghosts, and they are not pretty like her. They are purple and black, with grasping hands and eyes that send chills down your spine. They taunt you and scratch at your cheeks with claws that cannot touch you—and she is not a ghost.
He thinks that perhaps, she's just lonely, like him. The mansion is much too big for a tiny, pale child like her. He thinks that perhaps, one day, they can be lonely together.
It is silly, Morty knows—and he is too young for things like this. But he has fallen in love with a wisp of his imagination, and a face in a window.
She turns fifteen on a sunny day. The streets below are filled with people. When she wakes up, for a second Jasmine thinks it's for her—all the flags and dresses and cheers—but the next second, she realizes that no one dancing on the paving stones knows her name. She tries not to cry at the thought, and puts on a plain white dress.
"Jasmine!" her father's voice booms through the house and her thin hands smooth out her hair, eyes blinking to clear the tears caught in her eyelashes.
"Yes, Papa?" she calls back, voice catching slightly. She prays it won't be noticed.
His form fills the doorway, and Jasmine thinks she sees her mother standing behind him. "You're fifteen!" Someone says, and she is surrounded by lavish boxes. Inside them, she knows, will be jewelry and gorgeous dresses. Her father envelops her in a hug and then pulls away, holding her shoulders. "Who would've thought...you are a fine woman, Jasmine."
Hazel eyes blink. "Papa," Jasmine says suddenly, and tugs on a loose strand of hair. "Papa, I want to go outside." The room freezes. "For my birthday."
Her father backs up, eyes chilly. "Next year, Jasmine," he says, and stalks out of the room. Mama breezes by and kisses her on both cheeks before following him.
"O-okay," she stutters to an empty room, and returns to her window, watching them celebrate.
She sees a boy-man sit on the edge of the crowd, with blonde hair and purple eyes. He is staring into space, as if there are people talking in his ear. The rest of the celebrators exclude him, throwing nervous glances his way. He looks lonely.
Jasmine wonders what his name is.
When Morty is fifteen, he starts seeing her in his dreams. She is always dressed in white, and occasionally he thinks she is an angel.
But he does not believe in a god—or, at least, he doesn't believe in angels. It is hard for Morty to believe in anything, head filled with whispers of the purple ghosts that cling to him like burrs cling to fabric. They hum in his ear—you cannot believe in a god, look at us! look at us, we are so very alone, isn't it awful? no god could do this to us. there is no one out there—things that he does not want to hear.
The ghosts keep him from the real world. He is stuck in a dreamworld where he is not quite human, but not quite a ghost. She is the thing that keeps him grounded—the girl in the window who, somewhere along the line, became a woman.
He does not love her any less.
Jasmine waits, enduring the next year until she reaches her next birthday. She crosses her fingers every morning at 11:11—something her old nurse told her about, a tradition in Sinnoh or Hoenn—and wishes that she can go outside. She wants to breathe air, real air, ocean air. She wants to wade in the sea and dance in the rain.
She saves up all of these dreams—dreams which will become realities, she thinks—inside of her body, and they build up and up and up until the day that she turns sixteen.
It is the same as last year, outside her window. Sunny and warm and filled with festivity. Jasmine swears she will join in, and puts on her nicest white sundress, pinning up her hair with the pretty baubles Mama gave her many years back.
"Papa?" she says, peeking into the dining room. "Papa, you said I could go out of the house." When she is met with a questioning look she inhales, and puts on a nervous smile. "Last year, on my birthday—you said I could go outside."
Her father looks down at the newspaper in his hand and sets his coffee mug on the table. "Alright, sweetheart," he says. "Alright. Just be careful," he tacks on, as an afterthought. "And don't get lost." Papa does not smile. His face is pulled into a frown.
Jasmine exhales, and smiles, a genuine smile. "Thank you, Papa," she says and kisses him on his cheek before rushing off to the front door. She did not know she could be this exuberant.
As she slips on her shoes, his frown fades.
The world is made of colors, colors so bright Jasmine's eyes hurt. As soon as she steps outside she is swept into a city of technicolor. She smells spices and bread and perfume and—the sea! She takes one step, and then the next, until she is running down the paved streets, heading for the water.
She feels like a child again, laughing and skipping. She feels like she is reliving a childhood she never had.
Olivine is a blur on either side of her, a blur of names and places and bricks and paint. Jasmine does not try to stop and pick out individual detail. It is not worth it, she thinks. Later, she thinks. Right now is time for the ocean, she thinks.
When she reaches the piers the blue expanse spreads out in front of her, like a painting. She laughs, quietly, and slips off her shoes. Her hand tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and then smooths down her dress.
The sand is warm and grainy beneath her feet as she walks along the shore, alone. The rest of the city is celebrating. Jasmine has the beach to herself.
She walks, and walks, until she reaches the lighthouse. The sky is a mixture of all the colors of the rainbow above her, fireworks blazing against the afternoon sky. She reaches up, and tries to touch the green still lingering on the yellow-blue background. It is all so beautiful, Jasmine thinks. Olivine is all so beautiful.
The lighthouse looms above her, and she pushes tentatively at the door. It swings open at her touch.
Beyond the door is a marble room, empty except for the woman at the desk. "Welcome to the Glitter Lighthouse," the sign says. She smiles at the name. Glitter Lighthouse, the words rolls around in her head.
Quietly, Jasmine walks to the elevator and presses the button. There is a noise, and she steps inside.
It goes up and up, until the doors open again.
Morty sits alone in the observation deck, staring out at the sea. He likes it up here—the ghosts don't like it at such heights, so they leave him alone. It is nice to stay away from their voices. It's hard to listen to the ramblings of a dead pokemon, a dead person. They do not know when to start, when to end.
Behind him, the elevator dings. "Oh," a voice—soft, breathy, feminine—says. "I'm sorry, I thought no one was here." Morty turns around and his jaw drops. It's the girl from the window.
"You—" he stutters. "You're from the mansion." She winces, almost hurt by the title.
"Yes, I am," she sticks out her hand. "Jasmine. Of Olivine Mansion." It seems like a formality, but he takes it anyway. It is tiny, fragile in his large palm and sends bolts of electricity through him.
"Morty," he replies. "Of Ecruteak."
Jasmine smiles at him. "Hello, Morty." It is a beginning.
("you know, i've always wanted to go to ecruteak—")