Ghosts' of November

Chapter 3: Comics and Crossbow's

> It was hard to sleep the first few nights after The Old Man became the old bastard. There was another dream last night. The dreams mirrored another reality, but the reality was more imagination than creation. My body was numb to the pain, but it still hurt. The Old Man was nothing more than a coward, and maybe someday he would know it too. A small candle gently brings the words of Narnia to life as my eyes quickly read through the pages. Narnia was a world in which the people were always revealed not for who they were but for who they could be.

> Would Edmund become a king if he were not born a king, Peter always seemed to be a king, Susan even a queen, and maybe Lucy a princess. However, Edmund was angry, and that made him selfish. It was never really clear to me how he changed, it happened so easily, it was soon hard to remember how he had behaved. Prince Caspian gave hope, as one night he was able to run away, and in the running away he ran into who he was meant to become. If Aslan were real, would He see the man I was meant to become? This is my third trip through Narnia.

> The Doc had recently told me about another world. A world of hobbits. He told me that like Narnia the shire held a promise, but not all promises are meant to come true. He also said sometimes the real heroes are the ones who carry a burden no one can see. The strangest thing he said though was that the destination is often lost in the journey. The Library had a set, but Narnia wasn't done being explored. Thirteen hundred years had passed, but to the children, they had barely aged. As they explored what they once ruled, my body reminded me that it had needs as well.

> Some things are best left behind closed doors, sadly not all closed doors lock. As my feet walked across the hall into the bathroom my eyes followed the pattern on linoleum on the floor; at one time maybe it was flowers, if so, they had long ago faded. My eyes looked quickly into the mirror, but there was nothing to see. There was a comic left under a stack of magazines. Robert loved comics, and he gave that love to me. He said it was as good as a book but with more imagination. The colors on the page somehow mirrored the emotions of the characters.

> My collection really contained only the comics leftover after the new set arrived at Troutdale General Store. Charles Troutdale owned the store, but his grandpa was still there most days. Every Saturday Charles seemed to have a comic or two left over. He sold them to me for a nickel, but the rest of the week they were a dime. There was a new one coming out soon, little hints had been given: He was a pale shade of gray when his anger revealed the man he was trying to hide. Fantastic four was still a new comic to me, but it had been out since November.

> Of all the characters it was The Thing that had become my favorite. He couldn't hide who he was so he didn't try. There was only time to read a few pages; before the front door can be heard, as it opens. There were no lights turned on, do all monsters see better in the dark? His steps lead down the hall, in this silence; only silence echoes. For the first time in my life, The Old Man knocked on the door. My voice must've muttered something against its will for he said something quietly as he walked away. Suddenly, my need to be in the bathroom vanished, quickly.

> These feelings didn't feel like fear, but then again they did. As my hand reached for the door, my eyes stared into themselves for more than a moment. He didn't even blink, the boy in the mirror. My scream came out like an echo but made no sound. This pain didn't belong to any one man, but it had consumed many. It was consuming me. It was the first time in my life in which time stood still. There were no words for the anger, there was still fear, but it was empty. The DOC once said: "Time doesn't move because the hands on the clock move, the hands on the clock move because time moves. "

> My trust in time ran out, and like a mouse my feet shuffled across the floor not making a sound. My thoughts were waiting for me on the other side of the door. Why did he knock? He had never knocked before. Would he knock again? Did he expect me to answer? The old man turned the light as he was finished with the bathroom, but he didn't knock on my door again. The radio didn't come on like normal, instead of some sad song, some angry man shouted so loud he probably couldn't hear himself. My comics were meant to be the distraction as they were pulled from under my bed.