| The Painted Ghost - by Lisa Stock copyright Lisa Stock 2004 He stumbled after her. The crowd and music from the party faded down the stairs. And all were oblivious to the fact that he'd left or that she had beckoned him. The hallway was dim, but the white glow of her skirt betrayed the shadows and he knew where to follow. She looked back and he stopped, his lungs too tight to breath. As real as when she were alive! It couldn't be! He'd consumed none of their opium or absinthe. And yet he saw her as clear as the others. They all said they'd seen her too - but knew no better than their hallucinations and ascribed it all to the extravagant drugs. But she was there! He felt her walk by, brushed her skin, and grazed her skirt against his leg. He moved slowly toward this ghost, reached one trembling hand out to her skirt and took hold of the hem. Real! He rubbed the silk between his fingers and ran his hands up to her waist feeling her body beneath the folds. Red stained his fingers and he turned her into the lamplight. Painted words bled through the fabric: unrequited attachment…secret sources…wretchedness and ill health… His breath caught in his chest, he must be dreaming - it was the only way. A vision in flesh and blood, dressed in her finest to lure him! Yes, she was wanting him to follow. She turned to run but he caught her. Grabbed her and pressed her up against the wall, holding her tight until she stopped squirming. Her hair smelled of lavender and her neck was warm to the touch. Alive? He gently took her hand and stretched her elegant arm out to length. And there on her sleeve were more words: fruitful of misery…trained to right views… How strange to hold this creature he had given little thought to when living. He turned her around to face him. Her eyes were wild, none of the kind, downcast shyness they used to hold. Not the eyes of someone who would succumb to heartache as they had told him. He never loved her, but never meant to lead her astray. Yet he knew all along that girls of weak hearts will misplace their love, and trust a rogue every time. And now she seemed like one herself. She nodded her head as if she'd read his thought and he let her go. Her eyes looked down to another phrase on the skirt, it said - left behind… "What are you trying…" he started, but she slipped away and into a door leading off the hall. He followed her into a small bathroom, where she stepped into a porcelain tub and lit a sconce above. Pages torn from a ladies' etiquette book lay strewn across the floor, and next to the tub was a small table with a knife and bottles of ink. She began to peal off her clothing, and he shut the door. She winced as each layer fell, leaning against the wall to take breaks from the pain. Finally, the dress was off and she stood naked facing him, revealing herself. The horror he felt as he realized that the words on her skirts were not painted, but blood soaked through to the surface, for on every inch of her skin were letters carved and bleeding. …unrequited attachment…breath taken…broken…wronged… Every inch of her covered and scarred with the love he denied her…and himself… Blood trickled down as if to wash away the written deeds, but she looked him in the eyes - a defiant and proud creature, showing her wounds, daring him to give her another. "You press me woman to-" she held up a hand to silence him. And turning her back to him, exposed the last word written across her spine: Nevermore. |