Chapter 6
Ophelia
How didtoday’s events bring me here, drinking tea and sitting across from a beautiful man as he sips on coffee?
His eyes wander around my shack of a home, lingering around the plants and tables that I’ve collected over the years. We’re each seated on a worn sofa; mine is colored maroon, his tan, with an old authentic wood coffee table between us. It has slates of glass for the surface, scoffed and nicked with history. There’s an innate feeling of judgment that swirls in my stomach, even though he’s shown no evidence of it.
The gothic black walls with coffered edges and chandelier light fixtures definitely don’t brighten anything up, but I love these things. This place is me: Broken beams from the rotting roof, drops of rain falling and landing on plants below, and lovely silence. Ebony candles burn and flicker on the windowpanes, tables, and stage behind us.
I’m protective over my oddities.
Because no one else has loved them like I do.
Not the man who claimed to have loved me when I was sixteen, nor the man who possessed me when I was twenty-five. I wrap my arms over my knees and shut my eyes against the memories of my last love. I promised myself I wouldn’t think of that man ever again, and yet he still haunts me—a shadow in the back of my mind.
I’m convinced that the living are the ones that keep us here—their desire to hurt us even in death. The knife can forever be plunged deeper, even into corpses.
“So, what’s with the purple hair?”
My shoulders tense as I realize I am lost in thought. “Hm?” I look up at him and his soft hazel eyes flicker with curiosity and maybe even some nostalgia. My fingers thread through the long strands of my hair and I force a sarcastic smile. “Don’t like off-colored hair?” I ask, not unkindly.
He sets his mug down on the coffee table and leans forward, setting his elbow on his knee and resting his head on his palm as he grins at me like he has a dirty little secret.
“No, in fact, I seem to be particularly drawn to it.” His smile becomes distant, and he blinks slowly with thoughts—perhaps of memories of his life or the people in it.
I cup my mug with both hands, enjoying the warmth that seeps into my palms. It’s not my place to ask, but I find Lanston oddly comforting and welcoming to such questions.
“Who was she?”
Lanston stares at the floor and his eyes lose their brilliance for a moment. “She was my kindred soul, as lost and sick as I was.” It’s evident he misses her, but there’s something else he isn’t saying.
“But?”
He looks up at me and leans back on the sofa. His arms rest at his sides. I keep glimpsing the locks of hair that peek out from beneath his ball cap. “But she was in love with my best friend. And he loved her the way she needed it.” My expression falls and he gives me a weak grin. “It’s okay; when you love others more than yourself, it’s easy to let it be. I wasn’t meant to stay. And that was years ago now.” He drags his hand down his jaw; there’s a formidable weight of anguish he holds there. In the set of his dark brows, the lightness of his heart.
I frown and nod. “You seem like the kind of guy who would say as much, but doesn’t it hurt? Aren’t you lonely?” I turn his question from earlier back on him, leaning forward to set my mug on the table before I curl back up on the couch across from him. I pull my knees close to my chest and watch Lanston through heavy lashes.
He tilts his chin back and rests his head against the cushion, shutting his eyes as weariness orbits us. Phantoms grow tired so very quickly. We fade into lost spurts of rest and there’s no telling how long we’ll sleep. The redness bruising around the bottom of his eyes alludes to how close he is to falling into his dreams.
His voice is raspy and sweet. “Of course, it hurts… I think it always will. But most things that wound your heart like this are worth it. It only hurts because of how precious we hold them. I’m never alone, not really, because I know they will carry the weight of me with them forever.”
What a sad thing to say.
My chest already feels burdened with the gravity of him—not wishing to let him go. Lanston Nevers. I don’t know that I’ve ever met a man so filled with somber thoughts and lovely words. His eyes are enough to sink my ship in a dark, starved ocean. That scares me most of all.
“You have someone keeping your memory alive too, don’t you?” he asks sleepily. I let my eyes close and think about that for a moment. I think of my cruel stepmother and father. They wouldn’t keep my memory alive in a way that’s true to how I actually was. Neither would my distant relatives. Not my last love.
“No. No one will think of me.” I keep my eyes shut but I can hear him shift on the sofa with discomfort at my words. “I think I prefer it that way. I like being forgotten—it’s more poetic and tragic.” The corners of my lips lift slightly.
I’m delighted that Lanston was so loved in life, but a sting of jealousy remains in my heart. We all want unconditional love, but it isn’t handed out like it is in the movies. You aren’t born loved—at least I wasn’t.
It’s something you must prove you’re worthy of. Smile, say yes, and be polite. If you have a meltdown or speak up against your aggressors, you lose the little love you’ve earned. Isn’t that how it goes? Well, it was for me. I never quite wholly figured it out. It’s a point system of sorts—a cruel game of give and take—constant observation and judgment.
Children must learn quickly, lest their hearts be corrupted like my last love’swas. He was created—molded by the hands of evil human beings. Then, set loose upon the world. Upon me.
My love.
His love wasn’t unconditional.
The silence is dreary, so I open my eyes just enough to see Lanston staring at me with concern. I restrain the groan at his pitiful expression for me.
“I’ll think of you,” he murmurs as the last of the candles wisp out around us, leaving our ghosts in the dim moonlight.
I smile and hope he can’t see the tears that build in my eyes. “You don’t know me, Lanston, and you’re already dead.”
“I don’t need to know you to think of you, Ophelia. You’ve already imprinted yourself into my mind. You don’t give yourself enough credit for how unique you are, how alluring.” He leans forward again, and as tired as I am, I sit up to look him in the eyes. My messy hair falls over my shoulders. “Though, I wouldn’t mind being able to get to know you.”
I hold his steady gaze and pick at the edges of my dress as nerves swarm inside my chest. “You wouldn’t want to think about me if you really knew me. I’m not a good person. I’m selfish and awful.”
The air is warm between us. Something I haven’t felt from a phantom, ever. When I’m near Lanston, it’s almost like… I’m alive again. Emotions I thought I left in my grave come to life inside my veins. Each breath is increasingly more labored than the last.
“I’m no saint either,” Lanston says as he raises a brow and cracks a smile that shows off his perfect teeth.
“I’m not… good,” I say with a grimace. He stands, makes his way around the coffee table, and motions to the spot next to me for permission to sit. I nod.
Lanston settles beside me; the weight of his presence is all-consuming. My heart slows and speeds at the same time—hesitant and worried about all the things he may or may not feel that I certainly am in this moment.
“None of us are good. We’re simply human.” He leans closer and brushes my hair softly back from my face. “You feel the world more than others do, don’t you? You’re like me in that sense. Drowning in the expectations and eyes. Would you believe me if I told you when I was alive all I wanted was to die?”
My eyes widen. I thought I saw a familiar sickness in the way he stood so sadly on the edge of that bridge today. Lanston wanted to die? He laughs and nods as if thinking back to his old ways.
“I was unwell, but mainly just… sad. In many ways I think I always will be. Were you sick too?” His question is clear. Were you mentally unwell? I want to say, who isn’t? Our minds are all so different and ill in alternate ways, yet there is a profound comfort in knowing we are not alone in it.
I hesitate but clear my throat.
“I was raised to keep the dark thoughts inside my head to myself. My family didn’t believe in therapy. In fact, it was often used as a threat.” I laugh at the concept that they planted inside my brain. “If I was depressed or off, they would threaten to take me to the counselors so they could see and confirm how awful I was. I was afraid of that… the eyes of people, the judgment they would pass.”
Lanston lowers his hand and holds mine. His warm touch sends shivers straight up my spine. “That’s terrible.”
I nod. “It is… but I didn’t know it then. I was terrified of the world finding out how disturbed I was. How rotten and twisted.” I shake my head to keep the tears from forming. “I was very sick and untreated. I wish I had found friends like you did.”
He tilts his head slightly and then his eyes light with an idea.
“Would you like to meet some of them? I actually sorta still live at Harlow.” My face shifts and realization dawns over me.
He’s from Harlow Sanctum.
He dips his chin, reading my expression easily. “So you’ve heard about that place, huh?”
I lean forward to look closer at him.
“I don’t know a phantom who hasn’t,” I mutter half-mindedly. His smile grows as I study him intently. He doesn’t look like he perished in a fire or even has a hint of smoke on his ghost. Every death leaves a tell, even if it’s small and hidden away. You can see it if you know how to look for it.
A separate incident followed Harlow’s fire, one that made my stomach curl when I overheard it at the bar in town. And the longer I stare at Lanston’s gentle eyes, I know it was him.
“You were the man who died by the gunman,” I say hollowly. He saved both of his friends that day and lost his life in the process. The entire city was riveted with the aftershocks the story brought, over fifty souls from Harlow and then the murder. It was all anyone spoke about for weeks.
Lanston nods and shrugs. “That was five years ago now. But anyway, would you like to meet the Harlow residents? Jericho is my counselor and I know you’d love him.”
I shrink back, forgetting that we were discussing our demons a moment ago. He’s good at changing the subject—I make a mental note to remember his craft.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. Words from the years of torment I faced come whispering back into my mind. They’re going to take you away because you’re so fucked up. Freak. You scare people. You’re hard to love. Go away. I hate you.
I don’t care about you. I don’t care.
That one makes my soul dull completely.
Lanston looks at me and the way his entire heart opens up to me with just one slow nod makes my chest sink. He understands. He knows the fear of letting another see the hurt and the bruises you’ve hidden so well.
“I promise you’ll feel so much better when you say it. And nobody but him has to ever hear it if that’s what you want.” He holds up his hand and extends his pinky to me. “What have you got to lose, Ophelia?”
“The small, insignificant amount of self-love I’ve managed to cling to.”
His eyes falter, but I raise my pinky and he wraps his around mine. Warmth radiates from between us. I feel safe.
“I promise you won’t lose it.”
“That’s a big promise to keep.”
“I never go back on them,” he murmurs as we stay connected, sitting in the dark like we’re whispering secrets to one another to avoid lingering ears.
His hazel eyes narrow with a smile as I nod and say quietly, “I’ve never known a man to not go back on a promise.”
“You’ve never met me then.” He cocks his head like he’s proud and I can’t help but laugh.
Our hands drop to our own laps and after a few silent moments pass, I say, “I’ll help you figure out why you’re still here.” Lanston gives me a look of confusion and I quickly add, “You know, since you’re helping me.”
He leans back against the armrest and smiles. “Are you just trying to say you want to spend more time with me?” He raises a suggestive brow and smirks. “Or is there something you know that I don’t about why we’re still here?”
I look past his head and out the only window of my opera house that isn’t boarded up. The moonlight shimmers across the glass in soft blue hues. It’s beautiful to stare at; I often find myself getting lost in it.
“I have a theory,” I say.
“Well, let’s hear it.”
My gaze flicks back to him as I murmur, “A bucket list.”