Chapter 2
Lanston
I usedto be a city person—wide-eyed and filled with excitement for what the world had to offer. It’s difficult to pinpoint what exactly it is that changed my view of the bustling streets filled with people.
Perhaps it’s the mundane, sad faces everyone carries. All their youth and energy drained by the lives they carry out.
The misery is palpable.
I’m the phantom here, but they could all fool me with how distant and weary they look. People are meant to be happy, mingle, and laugh. I’ve forgotten how cold and cruel the real world is. It’s easy to be locked away within the safety of Harlow Sanctum. To be in your own sanctuary that protects all the things you hold dear in the world.
However, in the words of Jericho, if I don’t leave, I’ll never find what’s keeping me here.
Birds take to the sky as Yelina and Poppie link arms and rush toward the big pond in the center of the city park. A fountain is at its center, drizzling a steady stream that ripples throughout the pond. I watch a murder of black crows fly overhead with awe before the laughter of the two women draws my attention back down.
Poppie’s brown hair is pulled back into a loose braid, strands wisping around her face. Yelina smiles at her, brushing her blonde hair back before she leaps into the pond. Her pastel yellow dress gets wet at the ends and her heels are long gone into the murky shallows and mud. Poppie is only a beat behind her, skipping into the knee-high water. The two of them extend their arms and laugh like two intoxicated fools.
Their eyes catch on the boutique shops that line the main street as the evening lights flick on. They link arms and charge straight for them. Their clothing instantly dries as they set foot outside the pond as if they’d never even hopped in.
Perk number one to being a ghost: You can do whatever you want and not suffer any consequences. We can’t get hurt either.
Jericho chuckles low and lights a cigarette, placing it between his lips before stretching and patting my back to follow. “We’d better keep up if we don’t want to get left to the wayside,” he mumbles, lips half-closed over the joint.
I groan and pull my ball cap down more. Even though only other phantoms can see us, I’m fucking embarrassed to be going to this Spring Performance. Apparently this year’s theme is supposed to be one of those sappy, passionate, more of a musical type thing.
The nice thing about tonight, though, is the lovely ambiance in the air. As the sun sets over the mini skyscrapers of the diminutive Montana city, I can only smile as life seems to spark back into all the sad faces around us.
With the darkness of night, the human soul finds solace in being hidden—fewer eyes to interrogate you for the odd joys you hold in your heart. Funny, the things I never noticed before. The things that I wish I would’ve paid more attention to when I was alive.
But I was always one of those people who couldn’t look at others passing by in public. It took a lot for me to look at someone and smile boldly. Harlow was different; I felt safe there. Everyone was similar to me, after all. Broken and fucked up in some way or another.
Out here in the real world, though? I was an utter mess. I suppose it was probably the looks people gave me… For some reason, that bothered me the most. The looks that said I was weird or unlikable for being myself. If my hair was too long or if they didn’t like my tattoos. They’d prefer I hide everything about me and pretend. Draw that fucking smile across my face like every sane person in the world does.
And you better fucking believe I did my best to put on the facade—the show of a century. And as one would presume, people bought tickets to that show of false contentment, of no sad past, no scars.
At least, I did until it didn’t work anymore.
One day, I just woke up and couldn’t paint a smile on for one more second.
So I stopped looking for approval altogether and stared at the ground instead, because the cement and dirt were at least neutral to my existence. Indignant of those who dare pass judgment on me, I fell into myself. Into the safe recesses of the dark.
My light died a long time ago—flickering with the many exhales of disapproval until finally, with one big breath, it was blown completely out. Like a withering candle left out in the cold, surely to hush and diminish as expected.
I wanted to be so many things.
But most men aren’t raised to be emotional. So much cruelty and hardness is expected from us. Perhaps that’s why my father was so callous to me—so fucking cold. He didn’t know any better, and he fucking hated the softness of my heart. The tears that I shed so effortlessly.
I often wonder if he’d had a shoulder to cry on when he was seven, if he would be a different person now. Heartless assholes aren’t born, you know. They’re trained into it. Their souls have been drained early and thoroughly by the wicked people before them. Hurt people tend to hurt people.
The cycle. The sad fucking truth of it.
I wish I could’ve been that shoulder for him to cry on. But I didn’t have a shoulder either, not a hug or a warm place to find safety in my darkest of times. And I didn’t turn out to be a cold-blooded sack of shit. So where’s the excuse? Where’s the silver lining?
It’s not fair. It was never fair, and I suffered for it.
It’s hard to let that go—the absolute injustice of it.
I’m still here.
I am still here… and I won’t ever get that fucking apology.
At my funeral, my father just stared, cold and empty, at the casket as they lowered my flesh and bones into the earth. Wynn and Liam cried until the sky wept alongside them, but not him. Not my father. He didn’t say one word. Shed not a single tear, even for his only son. Even though Mom was dead too, and I was all that he had left.
No. Men don’t cry—not men like him.
“You okay?”
I snap my head to Jericho, warm orange orbs from streetlamps hovering behind him, and it sucks me back into the present. “Huh?”
He pulls his cigarette from his mouth and frowns at me. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately, Nevers.” I raise a shoulder and let it drop. He doesn’t press me further, even though he gives me that pitying look he always does. “I’m hoping that we’ll see fellow phantoms tonight,” Jericho says, changing the subject. His hazel eyes have that familiar gleam to them. He’s a positive-side-of-things guy and I can appreciate how chipper he is.
Five years ago, I was the happy one in the group. My eyes lower to my arm, just above the crease of my inner elbow. The III tattoo grounds me; even if I can’t see it beneath my coat, knowing it’s there eases me. I think of them every day.
“Why? They’re all miserable like we are,” I say lifelessly as I shove my hands into the pockets of my black leather jacket.
Phantoms. You’d think we’d call each other ghosts or, I don’t know, just people. But the apparent rule is that all dead people stuck in the middle, like we are, typically go by phantoms.
Jericho laughs and jerks his head toward the tall building that has a theater inside. I’ve only been here once, and it’s not fancy or anything. It does, however, have that nostalgic, rustic feel to it. The old bricks are a part of the original structure from the 1800s. The windows and doors are black metal, renovated recently, adding a nice modern touch to the historic building. It’s right off the street downtown; bustling cars flash by and people cheer in the bar a few shops down.
“They aren’t all miserable. You’re just choosing to see them that way. Yelina and Poppie are having fun,” Jericho mutters as we pass through the doors and slip between the living people.
At first it was hard to get used to them not being able to feel me as I do them. Although we’re shoving our way through the crowd, they can’t feel or see us. The things we brush or hold are simply in purgatory only.
“Yeah, well, Poppie and Yelina are still as daffy as ever,” I grumble. The foyer is packed, and as hard as I try to hold onto my grumpy mood, it’s truly not possible in this environment.
The merch shop is handing out T-shirts left and right as many eager people reach for them. Their faces are alight with happiness and glee. Chanting has already started in the central lower section of the theater, and I raise a brow at Jericho.
“I thought you said this was a Spring Performance?” I shout over the noise.
Yelina and Poppie run through the crowd and link arms with me. “I’m so happy you decided to join us this time, Lanston!” Yelina says with a big smile. I return it and it feels genuine for once. I’m glad they dragged me out of Harlow tonight. The crisp air and new faces remind me how much fun we can still have.
Jericho speaks over the two girls as they chat excitedly around me. “It’s unorthodox. You’ll see.”
God, does this man attend anything that isn’t unorthodox?
I let out a breath and nod at him. Whatever, I’m here and I’ll try my best to enjoy it.
Poppie holds out a T-shirt for me and I take it. “I thought you’d like the skull one best.” She winks at me and I grin. It’s a black shirt with a wash-fade design. A skull in the center, not gratuitous or obscene. It’s more sad than anything—half broken with a rose coming out the top of the fractured bits.
“Thanks,” I say as I take off my leather jacket and pull the T-shirt over my long-sleeve black muscle shirt. It feels like a throwback to high school when this was an actual look. A smile crests my lips as I reminisce on my punk phase.
Jericho looks ridiculous in the oversized black shirt Yelina grabbed him; it has a massive heart with hands tearing it in half. With his black-framed glasses and styled short blonde hair, he looks like he should be in a suit, not wearing a concert shirt.
I ask again because, come on. “I thought this was a musical?”
Yelina nudges me with her elbow. “You sound like a broken record.”
The women have shirts with flowers on them and words I don’t bother reading because the lighting is dim, and the noise continues to grow louder around us.
“Oh, it’s starting!” Poppie bounces up and down on her toes, Yelina lets out a shriek, and the two of them run off together into the crowd.
I frown—I hate packed spaces. Loud music makes it worse.
Jericho looks at me and laughs like he can see straight through me. “Want to go to the upstairs balcony? I’m too old for the main floor’s energy.” I crack a smile and nod. Thank God for my dead counselor.
We find a nice empty spot near the back of the third balcony. It’s so far away from the stage that you can hardly see much detail of the performance, but it’s still loud as all hell back here.
I throw my feet up on the empty seat in front of me and Jericho leans back in his, almost as if he’s going to take a nap.
The first half of the show is entertaining; it is a musical but very dark and morbid. I find it mildly disturbing how much I enjoy that part of it. The way the actors are dressed in bleak clothing and murdering one another for things as frivolous as jealousy. Jericho spots a group of female phantoms a few rows to our left and tries to get me to join him in greeting them, but I shake my head.
“Jesus, good thing you’re dead, or you’d have like fifteen kids by now,” I grumble as he scoots by. He barks out a laugh at that.
“You’re dead too, buddy. If you won’t live now, then when will you?” he says nonchalantly before he walks over to the ladies. I watch his easy-going demeanor and how naturally it comes to him to start a conversation. The phantoms are all too welcoming and greet him with warm smiles. Their eyes trail over his shoulder and find me, curious if I’ll join him, but I look away sharply.
I sink further into my seat, becoming keenly aware of the darkness that cradles me as I sit alone. Yelina and Poppie are below, having a blast and singing along as loud as they can since no one can hear them. Jericho is having fun chatting with other phantoms he’ll surely be bringing home with him later.
And then there’s me.
In these times of solitude, I think of them; the three of us should be together.
As I’m about to let the dark thoughts of my loneliness take over me, a flash of purple flickers across the stage. I lift my chin and stare, eyes widening, and for the first time since the day I saw Wynn dancing in the rain at Harlow, my heart throbs.
A beautiful woman dances across the stage. She doesn’t match any of the cast members wearing drab black clothing; she’s wearing a lovely white dress with pink rose petals scattered across the pattern. The tail of the dress is long and wisps beautifully as she leaps majestically from side to side, twirling with each step perfectly in sync with the music. The ends of her dress are torn and tattered, adding a very dreary essence to her languid, long movements.
I stand from my seat and lean closer, mesmerized by her sorrowful motions. Each step she takes makes my heart beat faster and slower at the same time.
She has a pastel purple streamer that she twirls in the air as she dances, and I’m drawn to it like a fish to the lure. I have to get closer to her.
I take the stairs two at a time as I sprint down to the main floor, shoving my way through the crowd to get to the front. Yelina and Poppie notice my haste; their brows are raised in question as they watch me race to the stage.
The ethereal woman throws her head back in a graceful final leap toward the ledge of the stage before coming down and placing both of her hands on my shoulders just as I prop myself up on the edge.
My very soul ignites with something I haven’t dared to feel in half a decade.
Her purple hair wisps around us as momentum and gravity bring the strands down wistfully, but her eyes hold my gaze as steady as the sun peeking through dappled leaves, bright brown and speckled with glints of alluring green.
She’s young like I am, and what a tragic thing that is.
Beautiful, devastating, and very much dead.