Tales Written When Poetic

A boy and His Ghost

note: this is extremely short and written inspired by the song above and partly moon knight, good ass show.

tw: insomnia, knife mention, ghosts/ hallucinations, drug mention

  The turning point. The climax. The moment where everything seems to be in bloody peril. That was when he had a gun in between his hands. He lived in one of the most dangerous places in London and he had a pistol stashed in his storage. Every night to come and hope that he wouldn't use it. But he never expected to get it out to end it all.

It had been haunting him for too bloody long, he thought he finally tipped. Turned lividly mad for his sake. But it kept fucking on his mind like ants to everything sweet. Ignoring the sweetness of her words, the beauty and paleness of her figure. Seeing her reflection through the mirrors, hearing her cries in his dreams. Her voice was always a mystery, whenever he followed it in his apartment till it turned into high pitched screeches. He was never a superstitious person, but this ticked him off.

He was done with all of it and wanted an escape. His life wasn't decent enough. A fresh out of college student with little to no money. Living in a shabby studio off north London. It's like this all felt new to him. Being a part of the family he was forced to live with growing up.

His ghost, he called her. a girl, a woman rather. She seemed about his age or younger. She looked as if she were so full of life for something that was a figment of his imagination, or so he was convinced. He sobered from drugs six months ago and he wondered if this was some sort of fucked up aftermath.

Waking up, he saw her back in parallel to his body. Washing his face, he saw her when he washed his face on the faucet's silver since his one room apartment didn't have except one mirror. Dressing up, he saw her behind him with the faintest of smiles on her lips. Getting back to home from work, he saw her figure splayed on the couch.

Hallucinogenics, Hallucinogenics, Hallucinogenics.

He ignored her. but that didn't work, he tried to talk with her feeling bloody helpless. She only looked at him with the sweetest of expressions on her face. He talked with himself that night, telling himself that she wasn't real, a fucking ghost, a hallucination. The days bled into nights and he saw her everywhere, she occupied his mind everywhere he went. Feeling like this obsession was a bottomless pit, a forbidden desire, yet he got used to her and her presence as if they were the normal of how things were to be.

Some nights, he laid in his bed and look to the ceiling. Sniffing on the air around him, smelling hints of bad perfume. He looked at the pale figure by his side, was it yours? He wondered. But then came the first interaction. Her figure turned to face his. He had gotten his first actual glimpse of her. Silky hair, round tired eyes, perfect plum lips and a nose that fits her face. She was a goddess in his eyes. He backed away and get off his bed as quickly as he could.

He moved out of the one bedroom and went to the bathroom to wash his face and repeat 'no' under his breath several times. He was mad, this girl—ghost—is fucking with his mind. She's not real, she's not real, she's not bloody real.

He went to kitchen, anywhere but that awful room. But all the color drained from his face. He found her sitting on the counter with a steak knife between her palm. He froze in his place and her gaze found his lingering in her soulless eyes. She hoped off the counter and he began to internally shake. He was frightened, yet so thrilled. She kept taking slow and steady steps toward him. A knife still fitted in her hand. She stood in front of him and close to an arm's reach.

Her face was expressionless, and so was his, till it broke and her face crumbled. She looked as if she was about properly break down. Concern took over his face suddenly, he'd been so used to her stoic face. The knife fell from her palm and fell onto her knees while crying silently. He could hear small faint whimpers of pain. He felt bad for her, so he bent down and slowly bent in front of her. She raised her teary face to face his and stared at him. Sadness overwhelmed his senses, now he just wanted to hug her.

His hand reached for her cheek and laid there. It's not like anything he ever felt. Cold, but warm. Dead, but so full of life. She nuzzled in his palm and kept crying before whispering the clearest thing he ever heard,

"Please don't leave me."