Silver Linings

Have faith in God and He shall provide

My name is Ayana, and I live with dead people.

I was 6 years old when I saw my first ghost, my parents moved us into a beautiful mansion in L.A. I don't think I would be alive today if it wasn't for that house. My parents are well known in the underground community and the black market for their specialty in the art of Hoodoo.

When I was a baby I was given to my parents to settle a debt, I am not a daughter to them, but a trophy, a prize. My father is prone to drinking his home-brewed liquor, my mother has a long spindly pipe between her teeth much of the time, she says the herbs help her work.

I was beaten from an early age, whenever my father fell into one of his many drunken rages. I would try and push my bedroom door closed, but my small weak muscles never held. That all changed though when we moved into The Murder House.

The tragedies that took place within those walls never bothered them. As practitioners of advanced Hoodoo, the veil between death and life was already paper thin. They weren't stupid though, oh no, my parents are a lot of things but they are not stupid. My mother burns a strange concoction of herbs, meat and spiced around the house continuously. Their aroma renders all spirits under a binding, meaning that if one tried to act out against them, they would be weakened. Sort of like a spiked coller on a dog.

Less than a week we'd been there, but my father had already somehow managed to unpack his distillery in one of the many spare rooms, and he had drank more than what I would deem wise.

"A-" He stumbled, caught himself on the banister. "Ayana. Come 'ere!"

I knew he was coming, but I couldn't just sit and wait for the inevitable pain, hope is a fierce thing inside of a child.

I scrambled to my feet from my bed, his slurs growing louder as he swayed down the hall. I slammed my palms again the door and pushed, praying to whatever God was up there, he would send me help, make me big and strong.

The jolt of a much larger body hit my door, and just as I knew the door would be flung from my grasp, his hands pushed along with mine. Such pretty hands, I always thought, the colour of fresh cream. I stared doe eyed up at the boy as we struggled to hold the door shut. I couldn't see his face, but I could see the halo of white blonde hair on his head.

Finally, my father, for the first time ever in my short existence, walked away. He appeared to have lost interest and stumbled into his bedroom, and swiftly passed out on my parent's bed. The boy finally turned to face me; his face scared me at first, the light of my room throwing shadow over his features. But once he bent to one knee, to my eye level, I saw him. He was the most perfect creature my 6 year old eyes had ever seen.

"Hi, I'm Tate. You need to go to bed now Alana." He smiled a fox's grin.

I nodded obediently, my dark curly bouncing around my shoulders. I crawled back under my thin covers and stared up at my savior, Tate. He looked down at me with cold indifference, but his eyes soon softened. He perched on the edge of my bed, petting my hair softly.

"You remind me of my sister. She was a good girl, just like you. 'was Pretty too..."

I felt my eyelids become heavy, my body began to melt away from me as I gave into a deep, pain-free sleep.

My faith in God was renewed that day, I had prayed, and he had provided. I asked for strength, and he had gifted me an angel.