> Who decides what gets to be remembered? What happens if you can't forget what can't remembered? In some of these memories, I feel what I can no longer see, but all I see is darkness. The last night I thought I would ever spend alone; the night before the morning in which we said "I do" to our forever. I put this old knife in the box that night. It hadn't been used in years, but it was always kept sharp. It was strange looking at it now, knowing the secrets it carved into time. I never opened this box when she was alive, I'm sure there is a reason, but I hope I don't ever understand why.
> I was hoping that I would have the strength to close the box, once and for all. To finally say the goodbye I never got around to saying. I didn't like to sleep because I didn't like to dream. I always figured if you could ever really go back to where you had been, it would change, and so would you. Sometimes I wonder, if life is really lived in reverse we just have a hard time seeing it that a way. The only difference between the last time and this time is: I have no intention of finishing in a night, this will take a lifetime. When I close the lid this time, I'll never be able to go back, I won't have the strength.
> I guess in the end, I thought you could go where you wanted to go, or you could hide from what you didn't want to be. It seems everyone is born with two faces. The face in the mirror and the face staring at the face in the mirror. It seemed Lizzy couldn't see who I was, and I couldn't see the promise her dreams were chasing. Lizzy and I spent much of that summer learning to walk, and pretending to be in love. We read our books when we ran out of things to say, and we walked when we grew tired of reading. It was when we would walk Lizzy tried to tell me what she saw, but she saw in color; I was color blind.
> I knew that I had to go forward, but I believed that I had to go alone. I wrote Lizzy so many words that summer, and read her so many fairy tales. She knew what to say, when I had nothing left to say. Those were such simple times that I made them so complex. If you don't feel loved can you feel love? As I hold the knife now. I wonder. If a promise is broken, does it then become a lie? In time most scars learn to fade, and we forget most of what we have said. It was November when I walked away from love. It must've been a coincidence that it was November when I learned how to say hello.
> I once thought tomorrow could hide any yesterday. That was until I realized how deep yesterday had become. I can't remember what I became when living in The Kitchen. I can't forget who Lizzy became that summer. I guess here in the end I am becoming everything I thought I was in the beginning. I look around and see the world in every picture she captured. She always seemed to have a camera, nothing fancy. She was always so simple. She would take more pictures on one trip than I had in a lifetime. I guess almost everyone has a mirror that they try to avoid.
> As I put the knife back in the box. I can see a few pictures resting on the Bible. It is strange seeing the two boys standing next to a pool, and only recognizing one of them. Robert's 12th birthday, and the first party I had ever attended. In the second picture, Robert looked so serious. It was his senior picture that was sent while I was living in New York. In that Bible though, held most of the life I thought worth protecting. I wrote the last letter to Lizzy on that Bible as if it were a table. Thankfully, one day it became the table it was meant to be. It was a table for the woman I never got to call mother.
> The first letter I wrote to Lizzy, I said all the words I had no courage to say in person. She was innocent, and she was guilty, but she didn't understand why she was charged. That last night we had; she was so exhausted, and I wouldn't fight any longer. It was the worst fight we had; had, but we barely said a word to each other. Love is always bitter when it ends, but ours became angry. She thought we should sleep for just an hour, side by side. I agreed because I knew I was never sleeping again. The monsters that the dreams could no longer hide, the fear the promise wanted, it was all too much.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts' of November
Historical Fiction"Ghost's of November" is a haunting exploration of love, loss, and the relentless pursuit of redemption. The story delves into the life of a protagonist who is trapped by memories of a troubled past, seeking peace in a world that offers little solac...
