Chapter 3 #2
They emphasized that Hell was made for the demons, not a place they ruled.
No, that was for Satan himself. The demons were here on earth and could torment you physically, mentally, spiritually, you name it.
The people in the church went so far as to say a demon was controlling my sexuality or maybe even a part of me.
They would cascade their own personal manipulations of His word to shame me for who I was in their eyes.
No matter how many sermons I sat through, I realized it was one sin I would never be able to quell.
The fear was there, but no fear could change a single thing.
It simply is who I am. Am I still made in God’s image?
Or has my sin changed my reflection to something so much more impure?
I am a living, breathing sinner in their eyes, and no matter how hard I tried to shove it away, I couldn’t rid myself of the truth.
The idea of kissing boys with chapped lips and scruffy chins wasn’t something I could ever reconcile with their supposed belief.
No threat of eternal damnation in Hell’s flames or endless torment from demons could change the desire for lips that are pillowy soft and skin as smooth as silk.
I feared Hell, and demons, and a chapel full of eyes that knew my secret.
But nothing could change what I felt or who I was.
I still remember how some of the nightmares were so horrifying that I would beg my father to stay in my room with me. The demons in my room felt real. Of course, he wouldn’t stay. He would just tell me to pray.
I’d like to blame the fear on how often these demons were used against me to convert the sin that plagued my mind.
My father even tried medication for schizophrenia due to my frantic outbursts until we finally found a psychologist who told him it was PTSD from the death of my mother.
But, behind closed doors, she’d sympathize with me for the trauma I consistently received from my father and the church. Their techniques to heal me broke me.
Middle school became high school, high school became college.
It was a conversation my father and I haven’t had in many years—one he assumes I have conquered through my lack of honesty.
But I think, deep down, he knows that it is a battle I will never win, and that our relationship will always remain bruised.
I bring my focus back to the woman downstairs, shaking the grief out of my head.
Maybe my imagination was playing tricks on me, or maybe I was hallucinating again from the trauma.
It wouldn’t be that far-fetched that the excitement and fear of seeing a potential ghost from the stories I’ve overheard projected the image down in that basement.
Hell, I thought there were demons in my bedroom growing up.
Maybe it’s just an overactive imagination.
Nonetheless, I swear I saw a beautiful red-headed woman frowning at me down there, and I can’t get the image of her out of my mind.
I shift on my hips to lean further into my chair when I hear a soft crinkle and remember the picture in my back pocket.
I lift my hips and grab it, holding my breath as I flip it over.
My heart races as I recognize the woman in the photo as the woman I swear I saw downstairs.
It’s a black and white photo of her side profile.
She is holding a book up as she stands next to a large weeping willow.
Her long curly hair flows down her back as a scarf wraps around her neck.
She is wearing a peacoat that cinches her waist, creating a beautiful hourglass figure.
She has a soft smile as she reads, her lips appearing darker, making me wonder if she’s wearing the same red lipstick she was wearing downstairs. She’s breathtaking.
Something about seeing her in this photograph shakes my core. The woman I thought I saw exists… or perhaps existed at some point. I feel drawn to her, a part of me craving to know more about her. I flip the photograph over as my heart stops abruptly. There’s a name.
Mildred Jones 1921
I place the photo on the table and kick my feet up on the chair across from me. I swallow hard. She was real. She is real. I have a feeling that I didn’t just imagine seeing her earlier. I had to have seen her. That must have been an apparition… right?
A million questions rush through my mind as I stare at the picture of the mystery woman.
Is this really her? Is Mildred her name?
Is she even a ghost? Is she trapped? Did Priest Brown see her?
Is he aware? Surely he is. I need to go back down there and see if I’m hallucinating or if this is just a coincidence.
I didn’t see him notice anything in that room, but maybe he’s used to the ghosts that haunt these halls if that’s what she truly was.
I run my fingers through my hair and grip it slightly as the excitement of the unknown settles into me.
I can’t believe this might be reality. I grin as I suddenly find myself feeling more alive and eager for the future.
I have something to look forward to. I can’t explain the sudden rush of joy and happiness as it courses through my veins, but I’m eager nonetheless to look for her.
It feels like something clicked inside me when I locked eyes with that woman.
What if you imagined it? The thought races across my mind faster than I have the chance to halt its tracks.
It sticks like glue in my brain as I start to second-guess it.
I start to frown, recognizing that my mind is preparing for the worst after feeling a moment of happiness.
I just want my mind to turn off sometimes.
I’m so used to things not going how I hope that it’s become instinctive to prepare for the worst. The prospect of Mildred, though? The weight of the thought floats away.
I might not be where I wanted to be this year, but part of me remains grateful I am here. Regardless of the truth, it’s an adventure that draws me in with a heavy sense of purpose.
I pull out my phone and look at my schedule, finding that it was my only class for the day.
I settle into the chair and decide to catch up on my homework for the week and bury my nose in my books.
Or rather attempt to, my thoughts consistently going back to the auburn locks cascading down her shoulders.
The library will close soon, and then I can explore more of the forbidden parts of this campus in hopes of crossing her path.