Ghosts' of November

Chapter 10: Two Sides of The Same Coin

Chapter 10: Two Sides of The Same Coin

> My nails have dug into the palm of my hands as my eyes open into the pitch darkness. The darkness is almost as terrifying as the dreams, and they both leave me feeling so lonely. The Old Man came stumbling in, and he found his way to my door. He never knocked, just stood there sobbing. There is no reason why, but he has taken a sudden interest in talking to me. There was nothing more than words we could say, and words were meaningless. The radio comes on and the voice that breaks the silence did so with a scream about hell and how we all must run the race to avoid damnation. His sobs can be heard as even by now even he knows he will never change. There is a part of me that wants to go and start a fight.

> The man on the radio keeps screaming about hell and damnation. Isn't it funny that a religion that talks about love; it is being built upon by fear. The Old Man continues to sob, almost as loud as the man who screams. At some point he came to my door again, he didn't knock, just stood there sobbing, leaning against the life he thinks he deserves. He stands there for a minute or two, not breathing, not moving. Maybe he was waiting on an invitation. This fleeting thought tries to become mine: "Should he be allowed into my life?" The Old Man must've gotten tired of the man yelling because t doesn't take long before the voice talking about hell becomes a voice singing about going through hell.

"Your leavin' will bring autumn sorrow And my tears like withered leaves will fall But spring could bring some glad tomorrow and, darlin' we could be happy after all."

> The door was much louder in the morning as he left. He almost seems to think that him going to work should be enough for me to believe he had changed. The sun was in the sky by the time my eyes opened. The Old Man left breakfast on the stove. There were a few eggs and some bacon, not much but just enough. There was enough coffee for a cup, but it wasn't very hot. With the radio now singing songs worth singing. There was a brief moment where all my thoughts seemed to stand in silence. Reminding me how noisy loneliness really is. Ms. Longfellow had invited me to go and meet with her down by the bridge again today. She didn't give a time, but it didn't seem she cared too much about that.

> As the music slowly changed from one song to the next, time seemed to pass so effortlessly. My hand had pulled out the locket, and it laid open on the table. Her smile was so genuine, it was so pure, it didn't know the fear of the monster The Old Man was, or that it was too brave to be afraid of such a coward. There didn't seem to be words that could define exactly how my heart felt; staring into the face of the woman I never go to call mom. She seemed so calm, even in a black-and-white photograph. What she saw in The Old Man surely must've died when she died. Isn't that the way death worked, it killed everything worth living, and resurrected only misery? How could he only smile in a world that no longer exists?

> The journal was open next to the locket and after all the words that tried to explain the way my life was written, the journal went back under my bed. It was time to clean out the chicken coupe, at least that meant it was time for some eggs as well. Mr. Charlotte let us keep enough chickens around to provide more eggs than we could use, it was one of the few things on the farm we could use to sell. The old man said he learned how to tend to chickens in Virginia and actually taught me a few things about how to care for ours. The Old Man taught me that chickens are for eggs first, and meat only after they stop laying eggs. The dishes are put back in the cupboard, as the day must begin if it is ever to end.

$ The radio sat in the window with its volume turned as loud as it could go. We have this old cocky rooster named Chuck, but it wasn't like he ever responded to that name. He always stood his ground, and kicked up as much of that chicken dirt as he could. After all the eggs were stored in the root cellar, the real work began. With a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow; it usually took two loads to the barrel and one load of hay back to the coupe. Of the three chores left behind, this one wasn't the hardest, but it was by far the worst. A black rat snake slithered away with barely a 'hiss' at my pitchfork. The clock said it was getting close to nine. The second load of mush was always the heaviest and always got on me somehow.