By Sophie Brennan
My coat is open, flying behind me, an elegant cape. Heroic. I spy a waving hand in shadowed yonder.
“BABoom, BABOOM” my heart says.
I faintly wave back with trembling hand. Their wave fades.
“Who was that?” I worry.
“The waving hand may think I shun them. I didn't, did I?” I console… myself.
The path leads me toward the scene of waving hand.
“Oh” I whisper.
It was a plastic bag. Trapped by a permed bush, dancing to the wind’s howled song.
I live in the attic with no door. People always told me that was odd.
I read somewhere, “An open door is a welcome mat to drifting spirits”.
I hit my head off the low roof… again.
I lay sprawled on my bed, embellished by a duvet of stars. Above me is a skylight window. My bed is a mirror only usable at night. The inky-black sky too casts a reflection on my window. A rabbit hole of mirrors. I stare into my face, but what I glance back is a black shadow soar by.
I hide behind my desk of Leaving Cert study.
The spirit abodes in my roof’s crack. Swirly silhouette of broken brain.
I mask into the hood of my art-history book… but I do slip a peek behind; My window is now a Renaissance painting. The spirit sits in Mona Lisa’s stalking eyes, flooded black.
I feel a spirit upon my eyelids, hanged. The spirit licks my candle before burning out. Then, jumps on my home button randomly lighting the screen during night. Now clung to my soul, sends a shiver.
My body vomits, “WHAT?”
“I waved and you never waved back!” taunts the spirit.
“I’m Sophie, too.”
I make a blood angel upon my floor, a cause of hitting my head. To prove I’m real.
Rich blood, almost black bespattered the silhouette in my roof’s crack. A little spirit flies from my blood puddle. My tainted conscience spilled over. Not heroic.