Chapter Three
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"You look pretty depressed." A deep voice says behind me. I turn around, it's Ian. He is leaned against the wall with his arms crossed across his chest, looking smugly at me.
"I feel depressed." I answer truthfully, looking down at my hands. A mental asylum isnt exactly full of rainbows and sunshine, if you know what I mean. Ian lest out a long sigh, pushing himself away from the wall.
"I can fix that." He says confidently as he strolls of to the bedside. He gently places his hands on my arm. His hands are big and warm, and there's a strange tingling feeling. I look up at him and I see his mouth moving but there are no words coming out. His silent chanting comes to a halt and my arm starts to feel funny. I start to get relay happy, but I don't know at what. Its a strange feeling, but its a nice one.
Ian removed his hands from my arm. " How did you do that." I ask, tilting my head to the side. " That was relay cool." I never new that ghosts had some freaky powers. Its kind of cool that they do. I want to know if he can do more.
"Its magic." He replies, a smile of his face as he turns the other way. "And a magician never reveals his secrete." He adds, as if there was some hidden secrete that he learned that allowed him to do such a thing.
"Really, magic." I joke, a smile finding its way onto my face. " Since when do the dead have time for magic?" I add, which puts a frown on Ian's face.
"Why not magic. If d-" he cuts himself short." Ghosts exist then why can't magic." He finishes.
"Hmm, I never thought if it like that." I say, turning my head to the side. "We're you a magician? Or did you just get magic after you died?Do all ghosts have magic? Do-" I question him.
"Stop!" Ian demands, looking aggravated at my questions, even though I only asked a few. "Why do you have to ask so many questions!" He growls out, his voice sounding evil.
"I- I'm sorry." I say, looking down at my hands. I didn't realize that he has a low temper. I will have to keep that in mind for the future. Ian lets out a long sigh and runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it up a bit. He makes his way back to the bed and sits in the side.
"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled." He tells me, his voice sounding sincere. "Will you forgive me?" He asks. I look up and see a teasing smile on his face. I think that he knows that I will forgive him. Its hard not to.
I let out a low laugh and playfully slap his shoulder. "I can never stay mad at you." I laugh out. I'm glad for the lighter mood.
He abruptly stands up."I have to leave, but I will be back in a few days." He turns and makes his way to the nearest wall.
"Wait! Why do you have to go?" I call after him. He is gone before I finish.
I stair at the wall and think, why did he leave so quickly? He's never done that before. He always had some sarcastic remark to say before he leaves. I lay down sideways on the bed, my feet hanging off the side.
I reach over and take my notepad off the night stand, which is pretty much a small fold out table. I open it to a clean sheet. I try to draw my feelings, though is sometimes helps, it never turns our nice.
I look at my last drawing. It's a pair of cuffed hands.
I never really knew why I put them in handcuffs. I touch up the hand a little from we're it had smudged. I prop the scratch book up against the wall. I walk to the other side of the room. I look at drawing from a distance. It looks much better far away.
I crouch down and squint my eyes. It looks more abstract this way. I straiten up and make my way back over to the bed. I pick the notebook back up and I plop down onto the bed.
I think back to when I was 9 years old. My mother first thought me how to draw.
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I seated at a wooden desk in our library. I have a piece of paper lain on the desk. There are eraser shavings every were, and badly erased lines dance across the paper.
"Ugh." I yell out, throwing my pencil across the room. I leaves a small mark on the wall. It had been my fifth attempt at drawing a flower. I'm a horrible drawer, but I love it nonetheless.
I hear the light foot falls of someone coming down the hall. They steadily grow louder as the come closer to the door. I hear the jiggling of the door knob, then the click of the door.
"Sweetie, are you in here?" I hear my moms melodious voice float over to me. I let out a sigh, I'm caught.
"Yes," I call out." I'm over at the desk." I look around to make sure that everything is in place. Mother gets very angry when I make a mess, she would definitely scold me. I suddenly remember that I put a pencil mark on the wall, I'm in for it now.
I hear the click of her heals as she approaches me. I turn my head around just as she comes into view.
"Now what is this?" She asks looking down at my paper,
"I tried to draw a flower." I respond. It's not much of a flower. Just more of a bunch of choppy or half erased lines.
"Here,"she picks up my pencil and presses it to the paper. Her hand skillfully glides across the paper. Curving and bending to her very will. After a few very focused moments she steps back, allowing me to see the work art.
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So, what do you think about the little flash back? Its short so Im probably going to go back later and make it a little longer. I can never get them the way I want them on the first try:)
This chapter is just kinda fillery( If that's even a word:)) It gives a little insight on what a ghost can do.
And did you notice that he messed up and almost called himself something else, something that started with a D. Its an important part, so a little for shadowing for y'all. Hope you enjoyed!!!
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Looking Past Death
Horror"Look at you poor little thing." She sneers, her face close to mine. I take a fearful step back, shrinking away like the coward I am, the coward she tells me I am. Tears brim at the corner of my eyes, but I know that I cant cry, she'll hurt me if I...
