GHOST - SHORT STORIES

WHO DID THIS TO YOU?

From the outside, your life looks like some fairytale. Your very own Prince Charming who worships the ground you walk upon. Forever showering you in compliments, especially when you aren't around to hear them.

A ring on your finger to signify his love. His commitment. His control.

The reality, behind closed doors, is something much more sinister. A violent and angry man who found his most suitable target in you.

Slow to start down his horrifically brutal path. As if you were treading water that inched upwards in its temperature until its scalding heat was the only thing you knew.

Volatile and sadistic became the silent descriptors of your relationship. And the diamond that weighs heavy upon your finger is a constant reminder of your confinement.

Forever feeling weak for your inability to leave; no matter how often your skin is painted with purples, reds, and blues.

And nobody ever suspects a thing.

It's the twisted beauty of a manipulator - how easily they sculpt their image and keep away misgivings.

Shattered glass surrounds you; easing you more than the emptiness of the apartment. As if its shards are a ring of salt that keeps the demons away.

The echo of the front door slamming closed looping through your mind. A husband leaving with thumping footsteps and ragged breaths. Muttering as though it's you who is responsible for his fit of rage.

Each part of your being that's riddled with pain, feeding your guilt. The sinful feeling so desperately starved despite its frequent presence; demanding to be felt.

Pooling around you like liquid. The water level rising; snaking into each heavy inhale that precedes your sobs. Filling your lungs; your stomach. Drowning you within the ache.

It feels like a lifetime, and no time at all. The tapping of knuckles upon the front door. A gruff murmur of your name from the other side of the wood.

And regret pangs from somewhere deep within your chest. Realisation dawning upon you at the inevitable reveal of your darkest secret.

"YN?"

Letters threaten to string together and tumble from your mouth in answer to Ghost's call of your name. Yet nothing coherent or audible finds its way into the heavy air.

Another salt-laced tear tracking down already-carved pathways. The cold sensation is the only feeling that keeps you from slipping too deep into catatonic disassociation.

And you're still silent. Despite the way your heart BEGS for you to scream for help.

A rattle of the door handle causes a startle that ignites every nerve within your body. Electric and jarring. A zapping heat that melts into nausea.

Eyes locked upon the threshold at the end of the hallway that feels as though it's doubling in its distance with each second of quietude.

"Unlock the door, YN. Please."

Frozen in your fear regardless of the saviour that's trying to reach you. Unable to shift yourself from the rigid wooden floorboards beneath you. Legs refusing the mind's demands.

"I can't."

A small whisper. Strained in its release. Accompanied by the side to side shaking of your head.

"Fuckin' hell - YN, if you're dead in there ..."

He says it to himself, yet each word is clear. Another attempt upon the door handle as if trying harder will convince the lock to surrender.

It's futile, to nobody's surprise.

But Ghost's well-trained instincts have long since triggered the alarms. And he refuses to give up on you.

Shoulder meets timber. Over and over. Eliciting creaks and cracks; splintering the fibrous frame.

Your flinches following each thundering sound of his body-weight against the door. Yet your gaze does not fall away from the only thing that keeps your secret hidden.

And as he tumbles forwards once the lock loses its fight, his features fall into your field of view. Disheveled blonde hair framing eyes that swim in concern. Jaw tense; teeth gritted.

Eyes upon you despite his ever-ingrained training demanding him to survey the surroundings; to seek out threats.

"YN..."

Relief washing over him at finding your stare rather than a lifeless form. Feet planted in the place in which he landed; shoulders rising and falling with sharp inhales. Hands balled into fists; adrenaline coursing through the veins that wrap around his forearms like climbing vines.

"Who did this to you?"

A wasted question with a preempted answer. But he needs to hear you utter your husband's name as the explanation.

A chorus of voices sing within his mind. How could you not notice? Why did you not suspect anything? It's so obvious, Simon. How could you not tell?

All he can do is shake them away. Banishing them to the back of his mind; guaranteed to reappear when things are quiet and he's forced to face his wrongdoings.

The lack of words from the small heap in the shape of you, forces Ghost forwards another few steps. Boots laying upon the glass shards that cover the ground like fresh snow.

Slow in his approach; gaze unmoving from your tear filled eyes.

"YN ... tell me who did this to you."

Somehow, his second request is less demanding than the first. Even when entwined with desperation for confirmation.

The space between Ghost and the ring of shattered crystal lessens with each creak of the floorboards. Pulse quickening as your mind torments you with flashes of your husband's face. Worn across Ghost's own; a horrifying homage to the skull mask that usually adorns his features.

Another step forwards. And then one more.

Toeing the ring of sharp glass salt.

Crossing it with another ahead.

The flickering face of your assailant disappearing.

Keeping the demon out.

Ghost's towering form lowers. A hand outstretching; digits tender as they sweep across your grazed cheekbone. Brushing hair behind your ear.

Featherlight in the contact. And yet, it shatters you.

Head tipping forwards towards the touch. Heaving sobs resuming in their overrun of your fragmented frame.

A gentle shushing that rumbles from beneath his ribs. Protective and strong arms encasing you. Pulling you into him.

Cradling you with a silent promise of your safety.

Chin resting atop of your head as he suffocates his rage; swallows it deep into the pit of his stomach. Another delay of emotion - knowing that you need comfort more than you need to be avenged.

"I've got you."

You've never trusted three words so vehemently in your life.

"I've got you, YN. You're safe now."