Savior

Haunted

What is Your Name?

Journal entry 9

I have started to see things that aren't there.
He makes me question everything.

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    Chapter 1

    I have always believed that the things that happen in your life only happen because you can handle them. Whenever a person thinks "I can't do this," it only shows that they don't let themselves try. They're convinced by their insecurities that there will only be a failure if they continue. This is when they are supposed to do what they believe is right, not prevent themselves of doing anything at all. Because it is better to know you've tried and had that experience than wish in later years that you had done at least something different for another outcome. I have many strong beliefs. I believe in having faith, in trusting those close to you, and being the best you that you are able to be. I believe these things, and life will continue to test my morality. Everyone goes through this; whether it's more severe or more complicated. I pride myself in having these principles close to my heart. I will not let anyone besides me choose my path and actions.
  My mornings usually start the same for as long as I can remember. I get up at six o'clock in the morning, in time to see the sun rise above the horizon. I change out of my sleepwear into my uniform. I brush my teeth, and take a shower if I hadn't the day before, and look for my shoes. I greet the Mother Abbess, she is the superior of a religious order of women or a province. I go down the stairs from our rooms and make my way down into the cafeteria. We have a short breakfast unless it's on Sundays, where we let the people who attend the services have a meal before we start. I mutter a prayer before taking a coffee and going into the service room. I go to the podium and place a bookmark on the section we will read over today. I became the head of the church after my mentor passed away last year. It was a difficult transition at first, but everyone was already used to me, so I've taken the role carefully.
  I walk down the aisle and go through the hallway until I'm at the large wooden doors. I open them, being engulfed in the chilly morning air immediately. I walk down the steps, having the coffee in my hand as a source of warmth. I often take a walk around the small town that I've known since I was young. I walk down the street, sipping on my coffee and returning greetings that frequent visitors of the church give me. I know almost everyone in my hometown. These families, their children, their friends that sit down in the pews and hear me every Sunday. Some will stay to hear the choir, or ask me to play the organ. All of these people know my name and recognize my face as a familiar one.
  I only walk for half an hour before I cross the street and go back. I open the gate next to the church and walk into the garden. To my surprise, someone is already there. They were standing above my favorite flowers: the asters. They are an every season flower, blooming all year long. They're pink and attract butterflies when they visit. I make my way over to the area. The person only turns for a second to register who I am before they turn back to the flowers. I'm surprised once more when our eyes connected for that split second. I did not recognize those eyes as any I have ever seen before.
  I know almost everyone in this little town. I know their names, and I certainly know their faces. But this face was a complete mystery. The stranger was male, looking as thin as me even with the layers of clothing that seemed bigger than his size. His eyes were a piercing green, his nose small but sharp, and his lips were thin with a tinted maroon. He was wearing a hood that looked worn, like he tried to pull it as far over his face as possible, but a few strands of blond hair peeked out before he tucked them back in. The hoodie was almost blood red and his pants were skin tight. What seemed to be most odd in this picture however was his feet. Nothing was covering them. He was completely barefoot in a garden between the church and the cemetery. I wanted to ask why his appearance was this way, but kept myself silent as I rethought it.
   He kneeled down in front of the asters, his fingers barely touching their petals as he grazed passed the ones near his face. I watched as he plucked one almost just as gently from the ground, bringing it to his nose and taking a slow breath. He stood up now, twirling the flower between his fingers, turning until he was facing me. He held a gaze as he put the flower to his face once more, not blinking until he lowered it. His eyelashes fluttered at me, probably because of the cold air around us. "See something you like?" he asked. His voice was soft and smooth.
"Only the things I see here everyday," I replied.
He giggled! "Ah, a shame I'm not there then."
My eyebrows furrowed. "The garden is a bit of a public domain, as far as church attenders go. Or those visiting loved ones." I tilt my head towards the cemetery.
He didn't look back, only humming. "Of course...I'm only visiting." He takes a step in my direction.
"You don't frequently, do you?" I ask, wondering where he came from. He shook his head, taking another step.
"I'm not exactly allowed," he looks up into my eyes, "unfortunately." I feel something touch my hand. The aster he plucked. His lips are parted slightly when I look at him, and I'm still confused.
"The public part...people take these flowers to the final resting place of those loved ones," I explain, not taking the flower. He raises his arm, his hand brushing my sleeve as he moves it up to my neck. I feel his fingers against my ear as he puts the pink flower behind it, making me feel a shudder down my back. His hands were ice cold.
"So I've been told," he says with a low voice.
This raises my confusion. "Are you...visiting?" I ask, not feeling any different than I did moments ago.
  A sense of unease takes over me as his lips shift into a smirk. "You could say that I'm visiting an old friend." He giggles again, as if finding amusement in my discomfort. I don't say anything else. I hear the back doors open, and a nun calls out to me. I turn around. She walks down the steps to meet with me to speak properly. When I turn back, the stranger is gone. I take the flower off and put it in the pocket over my heart. I hear the wind whistle around me as I go to the entryway.