Hold My Hand
I really oughtn't listen to myself.
It's the only reason I stay up like this, gazing wide-eyed at the ceiling in the middle of the night, listening to the sounds of the old house echo somewhere above my head. At times, it sounds like footsteps, as if someone's here, hiding just out of sight...
There I go again. Ridiculous. There's no one here. I've lived here alone for as long as I can remember. I tear my eyes away from the ceiling and curl up on my side under the worn, fraying blankets. The bed creaks and I cover my ears with the palms of my hands. It's impossible to shut it out – to shut out the feeling of a presence here... in a way, it would be more comforting than alarming... at least then I'd know that I'm not alone... This is absurd. Am I finally going insane? I've felt it coming long enough. Sometimes I can push it to the back of my mind, but other times I can tell that there's something pushing forward, that it feels like I'm supposed to remember... I've almost let it come sometimes, but my hands shake and tears come to my eyes and I think it's probably better to fend it off. I'll be just fine. All I need to do is stop thinking and let myself sleep. I close my eyes and try to relax... and then I think I hear a voice by the door calling my name again and I jump.
It's going to be a long night.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She won't remember me.
To be completely honest, it pains me. I don't understand why. I was her only friend. When she was still a child, learning her way around the mansion – well, mansion might be too strong a term, but we always liked to pretend it was a grand mansion – I was with her, nearly all the time. We laughed and played and we were children. Those were the happiest days I can remember. Now she is grown and she is gone and I might as well be a ghost. She is there, wholly unaware of the torture it is to see her tormenting herself. I miss her looking straight into my eyes, miss her saying my name, but even more I miss her smiling and laughing and being happy.
Why did she shut me out?
I don't truly know. I never did anything to her. I would never hurt her in a million years. We never fought. I guess... I suppose she decided she was too grown-up then. She stopped believing I existed. I faded from her view, and I half-believed that I would disappear from myself, too – that the only thing keeping me alive was her love for me. But I am still here... I almost wish I weren't, except for my faint, vain hope that she might someday see me again.
This night, I'm upstairs. There's not much for me to do around here, really, without her – I've read all the books, and by now, I know the moss-coated building like the back of my hand. So I sit and rock in the wooden armchair and worry over things. I don't really have to try to avoid making noise in the middle of the night anymore – I'm pretty sure she can't hear me. I get restless very easily, though, and after a couple long hours I walk downstairs. I guess I could try to sleep – I don't really need to, but it would be something to do, anyway. Instead of heading to the supposed “spare room,” though – she used to call it my room, but it was a different time – I find myself drawn again to her bedroom door. I creak it open slightly. Everything creaks in this house. I was never bothered by it, though – in a way, this house has been to me what I was once to her, and I've become rather fond of the thing. It's always seemed... supportive, I guess, and comforting in its stoic quietude. It talks to me, kind of like the trees outside, but even older, and sterner, in a way – not literally, of course. I just like imagining things.
The night turns everything gray-scale, and the silver moonlight just barely shines through the curtains drawn across the window, but I can make her form out somewhat, huddled as if she's under assault. I call out to her before I can stop myself, sadly and quietly. She seems to twitch slightly, and I watch her with whatever meek hopefulness is left in me, but she does not move an inch after that. Disappointment draws all the energy out of me again, and I walk over to her and sit down on the bed. Still no response. I reach for her hand, and mine passes right through, just as always. I can't touch her anymore. I feel sometimes like I'm made of air, and the solid resistance of the wooden bed-frame under me doesn't do anything to lessen the feeling. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't even believe in me.
I really oughtn't listen to myself.
It's the only reason I stay up like this, gazing wide-eyed at the ceiling in the middle of the night, listening to the sounds of the old house echo somewhere above my head. At times, it sounds like footsteps, as if someone's here, hiding just out of sight...
There I go again. Ridiculous. There's no one here. I've lived here alone for as long as I can remember. I tear my eyes away from the ceiling and curl up on my side under the worn, fraying blankets. The bed creaks and I cover my ears with the palms of my hands. It's impossible to shut it out – to shut out the feeling of a presence here... in a way, it would be more comforting than alarming... at least then I'd know that I'm not alone... This is absurd. Am I finally going insane? I've felt it coming long enough. Sometimes I can push it to the back of my mind, but other times I can tell that there's something pushing forward, that it feels like I'm supposed to remember... I've almost let it come sometimes, but my hands shake and tears come to my eyes and I think it's probably better to fend it off. I'll be just fine. All I need to do is stop thinking and let myself sleep. I close my eyes and try to relax... and then I think I hear a voice by the door calling my name again and I jump.
It's going to be a long night.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She won't remember me.
To be completely honest, it pains me. I don't understand why. I was her only friend. When she was still a child, learning her way around the mansion – well, mansion might be too strong a term, but we always liked to pretend it was a grand mansion – I was with her, nearly all the time. We laughed and played and we were children. Those were the happiest days I can remember. Now she is grown and she is gone and I might as well be a ghost. She is there, wholly unaware of the torture it is to see her tormenting herself. I miss her looking straight into my eyes, miss her saying my name, but even more I miss her smiling and laughing and being happy.
Why did she shut me out?
I don't truly know. I never did anything to her. I would never hurt her in a million years. We never fought. I guess... I suppose she decided she was too grown-up then. She stopped believing I existed. I faded from her view, and I half-believed that I would disappear from myself, too – that the only thing keeping me alive was her love for me. But I am still here... I almost wish I weren't, except for my faint, vain hope that she might someday see me again.
This night, I'm upstairs. There's not much for me to do around here, really, without her – I've read all the books, and by now, I know the moss-coated building like the back of my hand. So I sit and rock in the wooden armchair and worry over things. I don't really have to try to avoid making noise in the middle of the night anymore – I'm pretty sure she can't hear me. I get restless very easily, though, and after a couple long hours I walk downstairs. I guess I could try to sleep – I don't really need to, but it would be something to do, anyway. Instead of heading to the supposed “spare room,” though – she used to call it my room, but it was a different time – I find myself drawn again to her bedroom door. I creak it open slightly. Everything creaks in this house. I was never bothered by it, though – in a way, this house has been to me what I was once to her, and I've become rather fond of the thing. It's always seemed... supportive, I guess, and comforting in its stoic quietude. It talks to me, kind of like the trees outside, but even older, and sterner, in a way – not literally, of course. I just like imagining things.
The night turns everything gray-scale, and the silver moonlight just barely shines through the curtains drawn across the window, but I can make her form out somewhat, huddled as if she's under assault. I call out to her before I can stop myself, sadly and quietly. She seems to twitch slightly, and I watch her with whatever meek hopefulness is left in me, but she does not move an inch after that. Disappointment draws all the energy out of me again, and I walk over to her and sit down on the bed. Still no response. I reach for her hand, and mine passes right through, just as always. I can't touch her anymore. I feel sometimes like I'm made of air, and the solid resistance of the wooden bed-frame under me doesn't do anything to lessen the feeling. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't even believe in me.