> Here I lie awake again, trying to sleep but not wanting to dream. There are too many memories of too many moments that I can't change. If childhood was the only monster in this closet maybe there wouldn't be so much regret. It seems I've lived afraid every moment of every day I could remember. I wasn't afraid to face the monster who was violent, hell I'd fight him straight to hell if he would come out of these dreams. It was the regret that I hated most of all. I can't help but see the fire and destruction as bombs fall and bullets lit up the night sky. I can't help but feel sorrow that knows no end as I see the young and innocent scream in surrender when no one was listening. I didn't know that the war I volunteered for would never end.
> The room is dark and it feels so empty. There are books that can be read, but I am tired of listening to words simply repeat themselves. Since we can only see what we look at, can we only hear what has been said? What happens to the words we didn't say? What happens to the tears we didn't cry? I knew bitterness was cold, I just didn't know it was so lonely. There is nowhere I could hide from this silence, but still, I wanted to try. The stars had stopped shining as clouds raced across the sky. It is pointless to try and sleep now. I remember the last time I would read Narnia, all those years ago I thought it was the age of the children that mattered. Aslan always knew the truth he just never told the children. Each time they went back into the real world, a little more of their innocence was lost.
> Normally, I liked to read the history of men worth remembering, but when she passed I wanted to live inside of fairytales again. I wanted to live in a place where I felt safe, but that place stopped existing. The floor is cold although the heat is set almost to eighty. As the bathroom light turns on, I look in the mirror. I see the picture, I just no longer recognize his face, and I still can't hear her voice. It wasn't long, but it felt like eternity until the sunrise began her dance with the morning. I sat staring into the purple clouds waiting for the coffee to finish. It is one thing to finally accept that nothing can be changed, it happens just the way it happens. And another to sit in silence night after night and relive all the moments I would ever want to change.
> I wonder if anyone ever hears sound in their dreams, am I the only one who dreams in a silent world? I don't need to hear the words to know what he is saying, I remember every word he ever spoke. His letter still sits silent in that box, his words will never be heard. Also in the box is a drawing, the only drawing Lizzy had given as a gift. It was a bookcase, with paper falling carelessly through the air, as not a single book had a cover or a spine. She didn't use color, but there was no need, the pages are always black and white. She said, "Our story is written in these pages, my hope is that we can bind them together over time." As I sit here looking at this view of her world, I can't help but wonder how that book would've ended. It's a good thing she didn't see the man I became, she could never love him.
> As I look into that simple picture, I have to wonder, what words would she have used to describe the way we ended up. Everyone always believes in happily ever after, until you have to pay the price to have happily ever after. I've never understood how she could take this piece of lead or charcoal and create a place of emotion too colorful to understand. She once said, "why would I create a world I didn't want to be in." We spent most of that summer in the Library. It didn't make sense then, but it does now. Her best friend was the Librarian, who was old enough to be our grandmother. Esther would sit with us and tell us stories as if we were adults and not children. She was the one that introduced us to M.C Escher, a simple artist that used lines to capture how closely our worlds were divided.
> I remember staring at his painting Relativity for hours one afternoon. All I saw were so many staircases that went all these different directions, but they all led to the same door. Lizzie's art changed after she was introduced to MC Escher, she stopped trying to recreate our world and began to create her own. Maybe this time when I looked into that endless staircase I would finally see a way out of this world, and into hers. I guess in the end when it comes to love, there is a first love and everything else; because, here I am at the end of true love,yet I still miss Lizzy. On the back of that picture, I added a simple poem. As I read these words, I realized that no matter which staircase I take, it'll only take me deeper into the rabbit's hole.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts' of November
Historical Fiction"Ghost's of November" is a haunting exploration of love, loss, and the relentless pursuit of redemption. The story delves into the life of a protagonist who is trapped by memories of a troubled past, seeking peace in a world that offers little solac...
