He Haunts Me

I let out a breath, biting my lip nervously. I grip the box contemplating whether or not to read it.

Something held me back.

My heart and my mind had isolated themselves, long since stopped coordinating. Every thought, every memory lingers, looming above the ruins of my soul.

He haunts me.

My body aches, feeling the absence of his warmth all too well.

My traitorous eyes drop back to the messy pile and I pick up the first paper, carefully tracing the neat, cursive handwriting.

'I was never one for romanticism. Ironic, I know. I don't quite understand why I'm writing  any of this down, whatever this may be, but too many thoughts race in my mind- I have to pour it all out somewhere. I keep going over the moment. It's a delusion.

A mere moment that has siezed my mind.

She has siezed my mind.

I must be the biggest fool.

In truth, seeing her in the corner of that bookstore, of course she struck me, but that's where I forced myself to end the thought.

I wouldn't let any woman into my life.

I couldn't subject anyone to that.

That's when I should've left.

But as her fingers trailed the spines of all the books on the shelf, reaching to pick one out, my legs somehow walked themselves in her direction.

Seeing her stand there, golden rays painting her face, sifting through her dark hair- I felt winded.

Then, she turned around.

Good god.

Her eyes.

Eyes that would put the moon to shame.

She looked like a rainy autumn day. Like a piece of history.

I wanted to know her.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't string someone like her into my twisted life.

As I forced myself to move away from her, she spoke and I halt at the sound.

She smiles politely, chuckling at whatever nonsense I uttered.

Her nose crinkled when she smiled, eyes curving into crescents.

This girl.

She held 'The Phantom of the Opera' in her hands and I make the mistake of rolling my eyes.

She was beautiful but if the peak of her taste in literature was 'Phantom of the Opera'...

Well, perhaps I'll slide her a list of finer recommendations.

The absolute shift in her stance. The arch of her brow as she sized me up. The curve of her lips as they curled.

The next string of words that escaped her mouth, I'll treasure forever.

I stifled my laughter under a smirk.

She was funny.

She was brilliant.

She intimidated me a little, just a smidge.

I never really desired company. In fact, I hated being in any situation where I had to interact with a person longer than a minute.

People were so dreary.

Humanity had lost my candle of hope a long time ago.

But something about her...

Well, let's just say I wouldn't mind talking to her for longer than a minute.

And as I walked myself out the bookstore, I let the interaction melt into a memory I'd tuck into my soul and revisit from time to time.

I didn't get her name but that was for the best.

It would be better not to know because if I did, the thought of never knowing her would drive me insane until I went and found her.

No.

Let her be a distant dream I imagine up, away from my corruption.'

'Sitting in class, I twirled a pen with my fingers as I observe Osbourne, a twitch forming on my face.

I watched as he sauntered from his desk to the chalkboard, rambling on. I made a note of the several golden accolades that decorate his large oak table, papers, books, his black leather watch scattered atop it. My eyes skimmed the rectangular spectacles that sat on the tip of his nose, his corduroy suit jacket, chin up in the air, a disgusting sense of pride framing him.

His voice, nothing more than an irksome noise that entered one ear and left the other swiftly. I didn't need his lessons. I didn't require him to teach me anything. The tasks he'd assign were a load of rubbish. Only a simpleton would struggle with it.

How he's considered even a mite of what my father was, will never cease to baffle me.

Something deep and powerful bubbled up inside me, it's echoes growing louder and louder the more time I spent in his presence. I wondered if he recognised me. If he had given a thought to the evils he'd committed over the years. The lives he'd ruined.

My knuckles whitened as I grip the papers in front of me until the door flung open and she walked through. My hands dropped immediately. I felt my breath hitch, eyes widening.

I was doomed. Life was so cruel. So astonishingly cruel.

Why else would it bring her waltzing into my life, reappearing over and over again, even as I try to hide her away deep in my mind?

She greets Osbourne. Angelic mouth tilting upwards, dahlia dimples shining, cupid's bow acccentuated.

I wondered what it felt like to have her smile at you like that.

Eleanor.

Her name was Eleanor Burroughs.

I sing the name madly in my mind.

Eleanor.

Eleanor was dressed in a brown leather jacket layered on top of an ivory turtleneck with long dark pants. Her hair was unbound, softly flowing as she made her way up the stairs.

Her eyes met mine, brows quirking in shock before annoyance scrunched her face.

I couldn't help the smirk that pulled at my face.

She sat down. Far away from me, pulled out her books and attentively listened in. I looked away but my eyes kept wandering back to her. It wasn't just her beauty. It was more. There was some unspoken quality, some invisible pull that kept tugging me toward her.

I watched as she leaned in to every word professor uttered, drinking in every syllable, every observation. She was enchanted, body and soul. Her face perked up with every page we discussed. Eyes, eager and hungry. Passion emanated off her, lingering in the air. I wanted to bask in it.

Such depth, such zeal swirled in her eyes.

Professor asked a question.

She gripped the table, keen to answer. Slowly, hesitantly, her arm moves upwards.

Poetry poured through her mouth. Eloquent and soft yet powerful. She spoke like a blade. Sharp and thought-provoking. One word out of her mouth and she'd have you questioning you're entire existence.

She catches me looking at her, a daring look in her eye.

Oh?

I cock my head to the side.

I open my mouth, countering everything she just said. Offering a wholly different answer.

The good thing about English was its ambiguity. No one answer was correct. So long as your interpretation was justified, you could just about say anything.

Professor commended me. I couldn't care less about his opinion.

She shot a look at me, eyes in slits.

Ah, the overachiever.

She must be burning.

I bite the inside of my cheek but I couldn't stop the grin that appears on my face.

It was hysterical, the look on her face.

It wasn't that I liked contradicting her. But anytime I did, she would reply, offer a whole new perspective.

I loved hearing her talk. I loved listening to the words that flowed out her mouth, steady and potent.

She didn't back down. She challenged me.

I hated being challenged but she forced me to understand a myriad of different interpretations. She pried open gates of worlds I had never even perceived existed.

Though, I would never tell her.

God forbid she thinks I'm more than some pompous arse.'

'She wore a white dress today. It was elegant with lace trimming, coupled with gold jewelry that framed her beautifully. She looked like a piece of the moon graced the earth.

She sat in the corner. The sun poured gold through the large window, dancing on her face. Her glorious face.

She swooped her hair delicately to the side, exposing her collarbone. I look away, feeling heated.

Her finger flicked to the next page of her book. She took note of her work.

I took note of her.

I sketched the softness of her eyelashes as they fluttered, framing her eager eyes, lined with kohl, smoky and intense, mimicking the darkness of the night sky. The curve of her jaw as she rested it in her palm. The pinch of her dark brows as she'd decipher the answers hidden in between words, forming her crafty answers as though they were prose.

I exhale, overwhelmed by her presence.

Some were artists and some, well some were art.

Fear pools in my stomach as I come to a realisation:

If she were a song, I'd drown myself in it. If she were a book, I'd wrap my life in it's pages. If she were a fragrance, I'd douse myself in it's scent. If she were a painting, I'd drive myself mad looking at it for all of eternity, and if she were mine... I'd be hers. Wholly. Bodily. Heart and soul.

The things I'd do to just catch a glimpse of her.

I fear what I'd do if this girl just uttered it. '

'  "A child that is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." -African proverb.

I never much believed in love. Not even when I first met her. Not even now, I don't think. The truth is, I don't think there's much room for love in the mangled remains of my heart. It was all too tainted with hatred and rage, cold and ruinous. Too much anger resides within me. Too much I cannot let go. My body refuses too. In my mind, I have tried. Countless times. To be rational. And when I met her, I tried even harder. To fix myself. To pull up the broken pieces of myself into some pretence of a man fit enough to be with her. But with every wave of silence I commission in my mind, to accept and move on, an ocean of all the injustice committed cascades down and I lay underneath the burden of my past. Pain twinges in my gut, a voice bellows down my brain, the sound reverberating,

"How could you let them get away with this?

You're a coward just like the ones who did this to you.

How can a coward ever be good enough for her? You failed to avenge your father.

You failed to protect your mother and you'll fail her."

And suddenly, I'm a child again.

Feeling the coldness of a father's absence. The bitterness of a mother's neglect.

Covering my ears as I run to the corner of my room, seeking solace from my mother's drunken shrieking.

At 7, I was tending to my own cuts and bruises from the one who was supposed to protect me.

At 8, I was consoling her after she was beaten to a pulp by yet another man.

At 10, I was a murderer.

Oftentimes as a child, I'd magic up different worlds in my mind, alternate realities where I had another life. A normal life. A simple life.

In the chaos of it all, I had books.

Stories held my hand through it all. Perhaps that is where my inclination toward literature began. In the midst of all the pain, I found safety in between the pages of fairytales and myths. Where mighty warriors would arise despite all the suffering they endured. Where justice was served. Where good and evil were clear and goodness prevailed. Where no sin went unpunished and no innocent went cowering.

That, at least gave me some peace. Knowing that the balances would be set once again.

But the older I became, the more conscious of the truth I was.

And the truth, reignited years and years of grief and pain that blasted through every inch of me. Rage boiled deep within me, revenge sizzling through.

I was doomed from the start.

They say, "Everyone deserves to be loved."

But when you grow up thinking love was a luxury not a right, you don't believe you deserve it.

And for someone whose hope had died out a long time ago, there was no room for me to believe in love.

Until...

Until dark hair, a paralyzing smile and a soul swirling with passion entered my life.

She's imprisoned me. Shackled me. Bound me to her. No matter how well composed I am, a look from her and I am compromised. A smile from her and I am on my knees. A word, and I am gone.

If I wasn't a fool before, I certainly am now.'