Just A Ghost

A story about being yourself. Very poetic, I'd say.

It was always the quiet ones who are the freaks.  FREAK: they stare at you.  the water crushes down, harsh and cold.  he is a freak, with beautiful, icy arms.  covered with scars. his eyes covered with thick black bangs: emo, they say.

 

he gets up and stares at the black sky. he watches the stars form a pattern. wonders what they mean. "FREAK" he says. they don't know that it's a good thing, when they call him freak, emo, tranny, that it doesn't affect him.  why would it? tanna is standing beside him. invisible, because she moved away.  but she's there.  they made the world together: let everyone know: words really can't do anything to you. they have a flavor: like eating raspberry icecream in the kitchen at midnight, when your parents are asleep. they aren't arguing and the moon is out and it's quiet and there ain't nobody telling you who to be.  it's that flavor, on your raw tongue, and if you knew anything about anything, you would know that it tastes damn good. so they can't hurt him, no one can.

 

the ghosts on his arm are memories that won't fade away. carved there, intrically with a bright silver razor blade. his very best friend, nobody ever knew him better than that guy. that blade, stroking his skin like no one ever did.  the sly taste of the blood, the warmness of the blood, as he felt it on his skin, even before he knew he was a he, and felt it. that was the only time he ever felt anything.

 

the rest of the time he's just a ghost. invisible, because he doesn't have a body. you say, no, it's right there, see? see? you crazy! sometimes he's shocked that other people can recognize him, because he sure as hell can't. who's that crazy chick in the mirror? not him. so you see he's just a ghost. he's that ghost that shouts so loud, but no one hears ghosts. ain't nobody gonna hear no ghosts till they find a new place to live in. ain't nobody. he closes his eyes, listening to the hum of the sky. it's peaceful in these dark hours, long past midnight. he can just lay on the grass all night, ace bandages tied tightly around his chest, listening to the cicadas sing. and it's peaceful. the freaks come out at night. the grass itches, and no one is there. no one. it's just right. the only time he ever feels like a real person.

Reviews

[Desert Dreamer]

Very dark writing, and yet hope shines through. I enjoy the comparison of words to eating rasberry icecream.