The Ghost Of Me

By Valen

This morning I woke up and quickly began my daily routine, unaware of what was in store for me that day. When I went to take a shower, I turned on the lights in my room and in the hallway as usual, because it was so dark outside that I couldn't see anything. But when I got out, I realized that someone had turned them off again. This did not alarm me at fist, because I thought that my dad had woken up, turned them off and gone back to bed. Half an hour later, when I was having breakfast in the kitchen, I saw the curtains move through the open living room door. I thought I had left a window open, and that the wind was blowing so hard that the curtains moved, but when I went there to close it, I found the window firmly shut and locked. I slowly turned around, fearful of what I might see, only to find myself alone in an empty room. Feeling extremely absurd, I grabbed my backpack and called my dad.

When he came downstairs he told me that I looked very pale and asked me if anything was wrong. I reluctantly told him what happened, but his amused stare made me feel even more ridiculous and frustrated, since he had not felt what I felt. As we got into the car, I glanced at the house one last time, desperately hoping to come up with an excuse not to go to school that day in the next thirty seconds. Apparently, I was out of luck that day, since my dad ignored every single one of my supplications.

Unwilling to spend yet another car trip to school discussing why education is necessary, he simply cut it short by ordering me to be quiet. As for me, I thought that the best way to let him know I was angry what to ignore him and constantly stare out the window. As we went by the different neighborhoods, a chill came over me as I thought of what had recently happened. I wondered about whom or what had turned off the lights and moved the curtains because, as I kept telling myself, it hadn't been a coincidence. Yet that was not precisely what scared me. In fact, the only thing I found terrifying was realizing how helpless I was, because if something had happened to me, my parents would have found out too late.

Perhaps it was the sight of endless rows of half built houses in the dark that gave a ghostly impression, or maybe the immeasurable amount of horror movies I have seen, what inclined me to such morbid thoughts. I tried to forget about it, yet my results were very poor. When school was over, the school bus took me home. As soon as I stepped into the house, I could feel that something was not right. Nevertheless, I ordered myself to calm down and no to let the experience of that morning affect me more that it already had. I bravely went in, and hurriedly locked the door behind me.

I was still telling myself how courageous I had been by going into the house all by myself, when I heard a faint laugh coming from upstairs. I must admit I first thought that my parents had finally realized that a "C" was not a bad grade, and had thrown me a surprise party to reward my performance in school. But in less than ten seconds I became conscious of how improbable that was, and panic took over me.

Ashamed of my cowardly behavior, I lectured myself on how childish and immature I was being, though I dreaded the thought of having to go and check who was up there. All of a sudden the thought of my father coming home early from work and deciding to scrutinize my room seemed very appealing to me. Yet I know that it was very unlikely, so I made up my mind and I went upstairs as quietly as I could. Then I heard that laugh again, and I was sure it was coming from my room. I felt horror, and yet an unstoppable curiosity at the same time. I had to go in there. I had to look.

I opened the door and what I felt I cannot describe. I tried to scream, but neither my mouth nor my lungs were working. I was scared as I had never been before and the fact that I was alone in the house with that being petrified me. For the creature that had been tormenting me ever since that morning was no other than a child, sitting quietly in my bed and playing with a teddy bear. I was too scared to move, but somehow I found the courage to speak.

I asked her, for it was a little girl, what her name was. She simply stopped playing and stared at me. She stared at me as if with a simple look she was telling who she was, where she came from, and what she wanted from me. I just stood there, trying desperately to avoid her eyes, as if something evil was hiding behind them. But I understood that that was what the child wanted so, in an effort to please her and hoping she might go away, I stared right into her eyes. And then I understood. Her eyes told me her story, a story that I had always know, and yet tried desperately to forget. Her long dark hair and intense blue eyes made me feel her pain, and a tear ran down my cheek. That little girl, scared and desperate for company, was me. And she had always been inside of me, lost and forgotten.

I got closer and sat next to her, running my fingers down her hair. She looked at me and smiled. She smiled as if she hadn't in years, even though I knew she was barely four years old, and her eyes were the only thing that gave away her pain. I asked her why she was so sad, but in my heart I already knew the answer. She just looked at me and handed me a drawing that was next to her. I took it gently and what I saw almost broke my heart. It was a drawing of her family, my family, but someone was missing. I remembered that when I was her age, my drawings all looked like that one. It was my mom, my cat, and me. My father was never in the drawing. Instead, there was an empty chair, with a broken heart on it. I figured that she was a younger version of me when I was about to turn four, and my parents got divorced.

Not knowing how to ease her pain, I could only think of one thing. I told her to come downstairs with me and I showed her the photo album. She was very confused at first, until I explained to her that her parents were not living together anymore, but that she should not be sad, because when she grew up all the pain would go away. I told her that she would live with her mommy for now, but when she got older her mommy would get married and move to Italy, and that she would live with her daddy, to make up for all the time they lost. I told her not to worry, because her daddy would marry again too, and that she would have siblings. I assured her she would be very happy, and by the time she was my age, she would not want to change anything about her life.

This seemed to cheer her up, but what really made her happy and comforted her were the joyful expressions in the photos, and not my far too complex explanation. However, she was pleased, and that was good enough for me. While she was merrily going through the photos, I got up and went to the kitchen to bring her a cup of hot chocolate. When I turned around to ask her if she wanted some cookies too, she was gone, and the album was open in the middle of the couch. I sat next to it and looked at the photo. It was two years old, and my dad, my step mom and me were having breakfast in bed, and I was in the middle, looking straight at the camera. I sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, thinking I had never been so happy.