(Invisible) Red Thread

Ghosts

It’s been a couple of years since the last time I saw one or, maybe, I’ve grown immune to them for ignoring them. Until now. I know they mean no harm, they just want my help. It seems like it doesn’t happen every day that they find leaving people able to communicate with them and send messages to their beloved ones. But it was exhausting in al senses, so I decided to quit.

I should avoid the new one as I did with all the others, but I swear I have to hold pin myself to the couch before I run to inspect the abandoned house and look for him. My heart still beats fast and, at last, I understand why my mother didn’t see him inside the cruiser and that I didn’t imagine him. But, for my own sake, I should never mention this to anyone, even if I find him again.

Even though I completely closed the curtains and left the light of the garden on to catch every movement outside, tonight I have a hard time trying to sleep. When I’m awake, my eyes play me trick, making me see things that aren’t real; when I’m asleep, those gray eyes haunt me like predators. It’s as if those eyes had a life of their own and were the very essence of the spirit. If I think about it, they seem as wonderful as they are scary. But, the eyes of the boy from the abandoned house weren’t the only ones to visit me, but they came with unexpected companions: that old man who died in war and who didn’t have the time to say goodbye to his family; that little boy who died in a school bus after a terrible accident and who had fought with his dad that same morning; that teenage girl who disobeyed her mother and went out at night without her permission. Those and much more haunted me with their laments, leaving grave consequences.

When I wake up I find deep purple bags underneath my eyes. I immediately think about my mother and Michael. What will they say about me if they saw me like this? I put up some make-up on the circles and continue with the rest. The images of my last dream come back to my mind every time I close my eyes and I don’t know how I should feel about that. It’s like having a flashback to my childhood before the people close to me knew about my abilities, before I had a shoulder to cry on, before anyone could understand what I was going through.

I comb my hair with my fingers and I stretch the denim skirt I’m wearing before I get out of my bedroom. By habit, I turn my head to the glass door once again and, even when I know I should’ve expected it, I flinch when I see him standing on the same place as yesterday. He’s almost in the same position, but instead of looking up at the sky, he’s looking at something he’s playing with between his hands. I can’t see what it is, though.

Suddenly, I think about something that has never occurred to me. On TV programs they say they are able to see ghosts and they prove it with recordings. Will I be able to do that as well? I’ve never done it before but, maybe, if I do it, I’ll have proof to let the others know so they won’t treat me like a crazy girl. I rush to get my camera out of one of the drawers of my desk, focus the lens so the light won’t eat out the colors of the image and I take the picture. Just before the camera clicks, the boy turns his head in my direction and the lens captures his whole face and those gray eyes of his. He looks at me for a moment and a whole scale of emotions crosses his face: from surprise to disappointment, passing through indifference. He walks away again to disappear inside the abandoned house. I think that maybe he doesn’t really believe that I’m able to see him and that instead, I was just taking silly pictures of my own garden. That was the most common reaction when a ghost saw me for the first time.

With anxious fingers and heavy breathing, I look at the screen of the tiny camera and examine the picture I just took. If someone took a look at it, they’d think the boy in the center of the garden is just another person. This thought leaves me in hopelessness because, once again, nobody would ever believe he’s a ghost. Like that, my picture remains useless, but that only gives it a new approach, making me look at it differently. When I look closely, it seems like the boy belongs to the garden in a strange way, as if he’s always been there but I had never noticed it. He looks just like another factor that Nature put there for me to see and to make him part of a beautiful painting. If I knew how to paint, he would be my master piece. I press zoom to look closely at him and the screen frames him from the waist up and that’s when I realize that that thing he was playing with was a pink wasted ribbon. I stare at his face and the same troubled features I saw seconds ago stares back at me.