The Man From The Stories

Content Warning: allusion to themes of rape and sexual abuse. Please take care if you may be impacted and choose to read on.

Your Dad is like your guardian angel, always with you and watching on. It was a comforting thought, reinforced as the ending of the bedtime story she'd grown up hearing almost every night. Ashlea liked the idea of having her father there and with her, the way he could be. It wasn't really a consolation for the fact she hadn't had a chance to know him properly-he'd died before she was born- but it was still something, and for that, Ashlea was grateful. 

The story of her parents, was another sleepy favourite. But this was one her Aunty Lea tended to tell, rather than her mum. "I'm not sure I've ever seen two people so in love as your parents," she'd say. "It's almost like their story was lifted from a book. Like the two of them were made for each other. Your Dad loved to surf, and your mother loved creating with the shells on the beach." 

"But she can't stand the beach now," Ashlea had said the first time she'd heard the story. "I only go with you."

"Because there was an accident while he was surfing," Aunty Lea had explained. "That's why your Dad isn't alive. Why you've never had the chance to meet him and why he never had a chance to know you." 

Ashlea had pouted, on the edge of tears, but unsure whether she could cry over someone she knew only through stories.    

Ashlea distinctly remembered the way her Aunt had brushed her fingers against her cheek before saying, "he would have loved you." 

"How do you know that?" 

"Because I got to know him," Aunty Lea had said. "And I can see his best qualities reflected in you." 

"I wish I'd met him," Ashlea had said sadly.  

"I wish he'd met you," Aunty Lea had said. "I know your mother does too." 

What Ashlea hadn't realised was how much her mother had wished about her father. Like definite assurance he was really her dad. 

"There's a tiny chance that he's not," her Aunty Lea had told her the truth not too long ago, looking, and sounding, a little like she wanted to throw up. Beside her, Ashlea's mother had just cried silently.  

"What?" The admission had been a blow that made Ashlea feel like her  world was imploding completely. 

"I.." Ashlea's mother tried to start, but was barely able to get the one word out. 

Lea had rested a hand on her sister's knee. "It's ok, Sarah." 

Resting her free hand on her niece's knee, she'd held Ashlea's gaze. "Your mother... you.... well, it wasn't the nicest start." 

Ashlea gasped, her mouth seemingly stuck in an 'o' formation. 

"But I am so glad that I have you, Ashy." Sarah spoke up finally. 

"We both are." 

"So why..." 

"Because he was my greatest love," Sarah answered. "I want it to be him. It's a nicer thought, and I wanted to let what happened... I wanted to let it go and move on. Build my life, with you." 

"Plus, you're very much like him anyway." 

Sarah nodded emphatically. "You have all his best qualities, and I feel like he lives on, in you." 

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More of Ashlea's story is featured in Cam & Goldie, a longer story now fully up on Wattpad here. 

Her Ghost

 Just out of the corner of my eye, I could see her. Almost. She's there, but she's also not. Like some kind of mirage. Or a trick my mind is playing on me. I don't like to admit it, but I know that really, that's what it is. She's not around anymore. Whenever I think I see her, she's a translucent ghost. Whenever I think I hear her,  it's a faint whisper on the wind. I reach out, wanting to grab her before she can disappear. But my hand hits nothing more than thin air. Because she was never there. Well, not anytime recently anyway. 

It really wasn't all that long ago that she had been there. Then, without warning, she'd gone without warning. She disappeared, but not without a trace. Because I'm still here. Left behind. Left alone. I crumple to my knees on the ground, my heart squeezed to within an inch of itself and shattered as if it were a precious ornament she carelessly dropped on her way out. The searing pain makes me want to cry out, but what's the use? The howling of the trees would only drown it out, and there's no one else around to hear me anyway. 

A figure lurking in the shadows. A distant echo. No matter what form it takes, her ghost still haunts me. Because she's gone, but she's not. No, because she is, arguably, the worst kind of ghost. Her ghost is the kind born from a different kind of leaving life. Not leaving life all together. No, just me. She chose to leave my life, and in so doing, became something of a personal ghost instead. 

Somewhere, she's still out there. Still breathing. Heart beating. Living a life. Sometimes, I wonder what she's doing, where she is, how she is. Sometimes, I wish she wasn't a ghost. That she was still around and in my life. Having a ghost isn't always the greatest. Especially her kind of ghost. The wondering and the wishing can be piercingly painful. Like my heart is getting squeezed and shattered all over again. 

But other times, her ghost isn't so bad. When her ghost is haloed by the sunlight beaming down, more than just her ghost is illuminated. Happy memories of good times shared together, lessons she taught me that I carry with me still. In the shadows, her ghost haunts me, but when her ghost steps out into the light, I remember.  

Part

One glance was enough to understand why no one stayed longer. Not only was her appearance off-putting, it made her seem out of place too. Had her plane from some other Halloween themed world crash landed, stranding her here? That was the story going around, but no one knew if it was the truth. That would have required not only approaching her, but interacting with her. Something none of the townspeople seemed game enough to do. 

"I'm not a psycho..." she'd try, but her whispers fell on deaf ears. The townspeople had made up their minds, and they didn't want anything tainting their version of her story. 

"But it's my story," she cried to herself, alone in her little house on the edge of town. "Shouldn't I get to decide it? If they'd give me a chance, they'd see." She sighed, looking out the window at the flowers growing. The flowers knew, even if no one else did. The flowers knew. That's why they bloomed for her and only her. 

The townspeople felt the flowers' selective blooming made her a witch. And definitely a bad witch, judging by her looks alone. Because that was all they allowed themselves to see. Her looks were enough, according to the townspeople. More than enough. 

Sometimes, she watched the children play from the safety of her home. She knew they'd run away if they saw her. She didn't want to make anyone cry. The last things she wanted was to scare anyone. But she liked the children. It wasn't their fault they feared her. It was the stories their young minds had been fed that fuelled the fear they felt. It wasn't their fault. 

But it did make her wish. That she could be part of things like that, rather than spectating from the sidelines. Maybe one day, someone would stop long enough to look part her exterior and really see her. Maybe one day, someone would take a chance on her. Then, her wish would come true. She'd be part of it. Could it be you?

The Siren's Sanctuary

 The darkness had ceased to exist. Because that was all there was now. Black. The perfect canvas for mind demons to run wild, and to rule. All that is left now is that small, voice that whispers in your ear. Part of you knows it means you harm. But that's only part of you. A very small part. 

That voice is a siren. Dangerous, yes, but also irresistibly alluring. The siren is just speaking the truth, after all. It's not telling you anything new. Only what you already know. Black is all there is now. Dark. But the dark, and the shadows, are a comfort. Because they allow you a place to hide. It feels safer in the dark, even if it is cold as ice. 

You don't want colour anymore. The colours are too bright. So bright, they seem sure not just to blind, but to burn as well. Here in the black, the concrete cold numbs any pain you might've felt otherwise. Pain you know well. You've felt it before, and you have no desire to revisit those sharp, stinging sensations again. 

The longer you stay in this blackness, the quieter the siren seems to become. Until the siren falls silent completely. The lack of noise... the absence of the siren's whisperings, are not things you're used to. It's a little disorientating to begin with, but you soon grow used to it. Even come to relish it. The siren doesn't say anything anymore because they don't need to. You've willingly joined their cool dark sanctuary, and it has become yours too. Your cool, dark, solitary and silent sanctuary.  

Under...Stand

 Though the air was icy, it was the soothing kind of cold rather than the kind that felt painful. She was grateful for that. Everyone around her seemed to be experiencing the painful kind of cold. The soothing cold allowed her to help her loved ones struggling through pain. "It's ok," she'd say. "I can take it. I can handle it." And she could. Until all of a sudden (or so it would seem), she couldn't. Because all of a sudden, she'd fallen under too. 

She started to tremble as the weight on her shoulders grew. She looked around, hoping the same support she'd given out may now be repaid. But alas, those who would normally help in return seemed to have disappeared. Others around those struggling seemed completely blind and apparently oblivious to the struggle. As if it wasn't going on at all.

Or, did those others around her think she could handle it just fine? Because she always did? Or was that just how it looked from the outside? How it seemed? Sure, she might have buckled and bent over backwards sometimes. But she didn't break. Right? At that question, she wanted to scream, or at the very least, raise an eyebrow. How could they know that? How could they be sure? Because behind closed doors, beneath the surface, hiding inside, she had started to break. 

Inside, she was breaking. And no one seemed to notice. If they did, she had to wonder if they cared. Because no one was doing anything. Unless she were mistaken, it seemed they felt it was ok for her to fall. Maybe, they needed her to fall. Maybe, the sound of her crashing would snap them out of whatever was distracting them. Maybe then, their eyes would be opened and they'd see. 

Or maybe, just maybe, they'd fallen too. Maybe, everyone was succumbing to the cold, the same way as those before her. The same as she had. If that was the case, couldn't they all support each other? Stand together? Maybe struggling and shaky, but standing nonetheless? 

A rush of cool air hit her as she something, or rather someone, someones, either side of her to help support her standing. The people she'd longed for had reappeared to stand by her, soft smiles on their faces. I'm here. I see you, they seemed to say. I've got you. 

She slipped an arm around each of them, unable to help but smile back. "And I've got you."