Haunted
If you think there's no such thing as ghosts, think again. There are ghosts, specters, haunts if you will. I believe in - no, I know. Ghosts don't have to wear bedsheets or clink chains, they don't have to hide in dark hallways and leap out at the unsuspecting.
I am haunted. I am a haunt. And you would never know it to look at me. My four walls are a light green, not pink as he wished or blue as she desired. But green, a color they both agreed on. Light green, soft and muted. Peaceful, and mild and so fresh the paint smell still lingers in the air. My floor is wide pine boards, sanded and polished to a gleam. Not a splinter to be found, it's so smooth under bared feet, and brand new as well. What, green, no color for a ghost you say?
And what's more? My accents are white, with touches of blue and yellow. White for the bassinet, white for the closet doors and the dresser. White for the rocking chair. Yellow and blue are the tiny flowers on the sheets. The little delicate five-petaled designs are sprinkled on the blankets, and also the curtains that drift gently in the breeze. Those long, filmy curtains filter the harsh California sun, but allow the air to dance through. They ruffle silently in the wind, and sometimes flow over and around the rocking chair placed close enough to see the mountains during the day, and the stars at night.
He sits there, in that rocking chair, rocking silently on the floor that's shined so well that his reflection could be seen should he look down, just once. He never does. His head turns back and forth, remembering the corner behind the baby's bed where she wiped a finger smeared with green paint down his cheek, laughing. Remembering how it smelt as he rubbed his cheek against hers, getting the paint on her and smelling both paint and the clean fresh scent of her shampoo. How they laughed together then, and more paint was spilled. And how they didn't care at all.
He remembers that place on the floor, the pillows scattered as they sat and ate lunch, and made plans for their future. Them, their child. Their family. How they showed each other clothes they'd bought for the babe, clothes that still fill the drawers of the dresser and clothes that fill the closet to near bursting. That spot right there is where she laid back on the floor, her head on a pillow and he tickled her with his own waist length hair, rubbing it along her cheek, across her eyelids and cheeks. And when he laid his head on her belly to talk to the babe within, she said his hair felt like a blanket over her skin, a soft, silken blanket. Right there, that's when he talked to the babe for the first time, his head turned away from his wifes' as his fingers caressed that beautiful mound of expectant belly, telling the child that he loved it, he loved it, and he loved it's mama so very much. He whispered it softly, his lips barely moving. Did she hear? He said it so quietly at the time, but now he hopes against hope that she did.
His hands grip the arms of the rocking chair, and he can see her sitting there, in the same place where he sits now. Her hair up in a bun, her belly filling out her sun dress. Her belly and their child. He recalls how he stood with his hand lightly on her shoulder, staring down at her as she gazed quietly out the window. And once more he feels the phantom touch of her lips as she turned without warning and kissed his fingers. His eyes close and he slowly starts to smile, remembering once more how his heart felt so full he could barely breathe, but in that instant - if she had only asked - he'd have given her anything, everything. He wanted to. He would have. But she did not, and so he did not, although he felt it all.
The chair rocks and rocks, and he stares out the window as the curtains flow over him then float back with the dying of the breeze. Where did she go, why did she leave? Why did she have to go across country to get away? What was she running from, or to? And where was she, were were they now, both her and their child? He thinks of what he's done as he strokes the gold band on his hand and twists the ring around his finger slowly. He thinks of what he put her through, and he would beg or plead if he could, he would change, he wouldn't touch her, never hurt her, not lay a hand on her if only she would return. No, not even that, if only she would call him, just call him and let him know she was alive, that she and the babe were alright. Just one call would make it better, would make him feel something other than what he feels inside. Because inside is a void, a gaping, gushing hole where once his heart was. A heart he never knew he had, a heart that only began to beat once she had come into his life. Not that he told her, he tried to show her - but, no. He never told her. Or perhaps he just didn't tell her enough.
He will at last, get up slowly from the now still rocking chair. He will give a last glance at these green walls and the rocker at his side. His gaze will linger on the bassinet longest of all before he silently walks to the door and opens it to leave. And as the door is shut behind him, he makes up his mind then and there that he hates me, my green walls, and pine floor, my furniture. He promises himself that tomorrow he will have someone come to clean me out, someone to take the furniture and to repaint my walls. Someone to take the rocking chair and the bassinet and haul them away, and break them, or dump them, or burn them. Tomorrow he would do this, with no hesitation, and no second thoughts.
Tomorrow, just like he promised himself he would yesterday. And the day before that.
And the day before that. And...
Top Dollar
Fandom: The Crow
Words: 1146
X-posted to tenebrae_nostro July Character Development Exercise
and X-posted to writers_muses prompt #44. 6 - one word prompt 'Remembrance'.
I am haunted. I am a haunt. And you would never know it to look at me. My four walls are a light green, not pink as he wished or blue as she desired. But green, a color they both agreed on. Light green, soft and muted. Peaceful, and mild and so fresh the paint smell still lingers in the air. My floor is wide pine boards, sanded and polished to a gleam. Not a splinter to be found, it's so smooth under bared feet, and brand new as well. What, green, no color for a ghost you say?
And what's more? My accents are white, with touches of blue and yellow. White for the bassinet, white for the closet doors and the dresser. White for the rocking chair. Yellow and blue are the tiny flowers on the sheets. The little delicate five-petaled designs are sprinkled on the blankets, and also the curtains that drift gently in the breeze. Those long, filmy curtains filter the harsh California sun, but allow the air to dance through. They ruffle silently in the wind, and sometimes flow over and around the rocking chair placed close enough to see the mountains during the day, and the stars at night.
He sits there, in that rocking chair, rocking silently on the floor that's shined so well that his reflection could be seen should he look down, just once. He never does. His head turns back and forth, remembering the corner behind the baby's bed where she wiped a finger smeared with green paint down his cheek, laughing. Remembering how it smelt as he rubbed his cheek against hers, getting the paint on her and smelling both paint and the clean fresh scent of her shampoo. How they laughed together then, and more paint was spilled. And how they didn't care at all.
He remembers that place on the floor, the pillows scattered as they sat and ate lunch, and made plans for their future. Them, their child. Their family. How they showed each other clothes they'd bought for the babe, clothes that still fill the drawers of the dresser and clothes that fill the closet to near bursting. That spot right there is where she laid back on the floor, her head on a pillow and he tickled her with his own waist length hair, rubbing it along her cheek, across her eyelids and cheeks. And when he laid his head on her belly to talk to the babe within, she said his hair felt like a blanket over her skin, a soft, silken blanket. Right there, that's when he talked to the babe for the first time, his head turned away from his wifes' as his fingers caressed that beautiful mound of expectant belly, telling the child that he loved it, he loved it, and he loved it's mama so very much. He whispered it softly, his lips barely moving. Did she hear? He said it so quietly at the time, but now he hopes against hope that she did.
His hands grip the arms of the rocking chair, and he can see her sitting there, in the same place where he sits now. Her hair up in a bun, her belly filling out her sun dress. Her belly and their child. He recalls how he stood with his hand lightly on her shoulder, staring down at her as she gazed quietly out the window. And once more he feels the phantom touch of her lips as she turned without warning and kissed his fingers. His eyes close and he slowly starts to smile, remembering once more how his heart felt so full he could barely breathe, but in that instant - if she had only asked - he'd have given her anything, everything. He wanted to. He would have. But she did not, and so he did not, although he felt it all.
The chair rocks and rocks, and he stares out the window as the curtains flow over him then float back with the dying of the breeze. Where did she go, why did she leave? Why did she have to go across country to get away? What was she running from, or to? And where was she, were were they now, both her and their child? He thinks of what he's done as he strokes the gold band on his hand and twists the ring around his finger slowly. He thinks of what he put her through, and he would beg or plead if he could, he would change, he wouldn't touch her, never hurt her, not lay a hand on her if only she would return. No, not even that, if only she would call him, just call him and let him know she was alive, that she and the babe were alright. Just one call would make it better, would make him feel something other than what he feels inside. Because inside is a void, a gaping, gushing hole where once his heart was. A heart he never knew he had, a heart that only began to beat once she had come into his life. Not that he told her, he tried to show her - but, no. He never told her. Or perhaps he just didn't tell her enough.
He will at last, get up slowly from the now still rocking chair. He will give a last glance at these green walls and the rocker at his side. His gaze will linger on the bassinet longest of all before he silently walks to the door and opens it to leave. And as the door is shut behind him, he makes up his mind then and there that he hates me, my green walls, and pine floor, my furniture. He promises himself that tomorrow he will have someone come to clean me out, someone to take the furniture and to repaint my walls. Someone to take the rocking chair and the bassinet and haul them away, and break them, or dump them, or burn them. Tomorrow he would do this, with no hesitation, and no second thoughts.
Tomorrow, just like he promised himself he would yesterday. And the day before that.
And the day before that. And...
Top Dollar
Fandom: The Crow
Words: 1146
X-posted to tenebrae_nostro July Character Development Exercise
and X-posted to writers_muses prompt #44. 6 - one word prompt 'Remembrance'.