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Tears of a Ghost


by blubblub317

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There's always one moment that's somehow stored in a person's mind for the course of their life. Sometimes it's significant, or sometimes it's deemed unimportant. For me, it changed everything. My memory was a simple one, though.

     It was a memory of myself, during a warm springtime day, looking down at the beautiful pond not far away from my home, with its smooth ripples that never ceased. I gazed at my reflection, smiling, always thinking that I looked funny because of the water's never-ending movement.

     I remember slowly dipping my feet into the water, feeling the coolness relax my legs. Then, I thought it odd that my feet were touching nothing underneath the water. Curious, I leaned more forward, the water now rising above my knees. I still felt nothing, causing my interest to pique. Deciding that it wouldn't matter if I got wet, I pushed my body into the water, and immediately felt a sense of panic overcome me.

     There was still no bottom to touch. Terrified, I simply began sinking, the water stinging my open eyes as I desperately tried to reach the top, but instead, sank like a rock to the bottom. I remembered pain, and then blackness.

     And then I saw a burst of light. After that, I was never the same again.

     **************

     I shook my head, frustrated, as a group of troublemakers tramped on my lawn and laughed as if they thought this was the funniest thing in the world. The apparent leader, a red Shoyru, yelled out loud, "Run! This place is haunted!" and all his other friends sniggered.

     Sighting, I drew the curtains shut, and floated back to my worn-out armchair. The desolate area was soothingly quite, yet horribly managed. Long, thick spider webs dangled from the corners of the weak ceilings. The once vibrant green paint in the living room had now somehow transformed in a murky brown shade, and the floors continually creaked even though I was only the one there.

     Though my home could be considered as something of a mess, I still held a certain pride for it: my paintings.

     My paintings were all old, hanging crookedly on the wood-paneled wall. Though the oils were faded and the colors dull, the stories beneath the paint were as vivid as ever. If I looked at a painting and closed my eyes, I could imagine the story beneath - the story of happier, sweeter days, days before the water had engulfed me in darkness. I could see the days of life.

     Most of my days were spent gazing at them, trying to uncover what they meant, and wondering what inspirations the artist used while painting them. I knew they were all by the same artist; the paintings had a certain feel about them, as if it were a life story being played out. The way they were just drawn also had repetitive tones of vivacious reds and shadowy blues.

     My one wish, since I had been left incarcerated in this home, was to find out who this brilliant artist was. Find out why he or she made these paintings, listen to their story. Yet it has, as chances have shown, never been fulfilled. I merely wander around this awful place, hoping that, someday, society will accept me for who I am.

     But the people of Neopia are cruel beings; so na├»ve and ignorant to believe everything they read in the ridiculous papers. Ever since the unforgiving article about me was published in the Neopian Times a few years ago, I've been deemed a monster, or as the wretched reporter said it, 'A cranky old spirit who isn't too fond of visitors and has a cold, tired heart.'

     I remember so clearly the feeling that I felt when my eyes flashed across those horrible words. There was a pang of confusion and bitter sadness that hit my heart, and my eyes strained to let tears fall. But for ghosts, it simply isn't possible to cry; they are not living beings nor are they dead. They are merely an existence in this world. And that's why, at times, I fuel at anger for being cursed of having to live this life forever.

     Ghosts are rare in Neopia, only a few are known to the public, and the remaining few hide because of what others will say. Don't these people realize that is not us who decide to be ghosts, but life itself? Why is so society so blinded with fear of having individual different opinions that they are no longer in control of their own lives?

     Many questions linger in my mind during the days and nights, many left unanswered. Each day, I feel my sanity wilting away. For one hundred and two years, I've been left in what used to be my home, nearby the pond that changed everything. For fifty four years, I haunted this mansion, praying each day that my parents would realize it was me and not some horrible creature who found it funny scaring them.

     I remember watching my sister trying to write a poem about me in her bedroom, but failing miserably as her falling tears ruined the ink on the paper. And I so desperately wanted to hug her, feel her own warmth comfort me, and let tears fall. They never did, and I hated the world for being so malicious to me.

     Then, the three eventually passed away, and never became ghosts like me. There was that small bit of hope inside of me that badly wanted my mommy, and dad, and sister to come back and be with me for eternity. But then I soon realized I would never want them to have to endure what I go through. I wanted them to stay happy, even if it meant sacrificing my own.

     As I pondered on all of these drawn-out thoughts, I suddenly heard a loud SPLAT coming from the window. Startled, I rose up and quickly drifted to the source of the disturbance. Like always, it was another gang of troublemakers, and this time they were egging my house.

     Immediately knowing what I had to do, I opened my mouth and let a haunting song escape my lips. It flew throughout the room and out the creaks of the windows, entering the ears of the alarmed pets. I saw them freezing in mid-motion, listening to the beautiful yet chilling melody, and I could see the fear in their wide-eyes.

     A few moments later, they ran away, screaming, and I felt more horrible inside because I had to scare another pair of young pets again. As I wheeled around to return to my armchair, a strong gust of wind suddenly flew through the window and forced a nearby painting to fall off the wall. It swiftly landed on the floor with a soft thump. I gasped, quickly kneeling down and hoping that the painting hadn't been damaged. Examining it closely, I found the corner of the painting had peeled off and flew silently in the air like a feather.

     It landed on the floor, the blank side facing upwards. A woozy feeling suddenly drifted in my stomach, and my mouth hung open. There, written in messy cursive writing, were the initials 'M.P'.

     I instantly knew who the painter had been. Miguel Prenderghast. My father. It suddenly all fit like a jigsaw puzzle in my mind. All those times he would leave and enter that secret room where he stayed for hours. Always that familiar something hidden in the paintings but I could never seem to put my paw on it. My father, he was the one who had painted these marvelous gems, the only remaining happiness in my life.

     As I lay there, holding the painting in my arms, I felt a rush of emotions rise up inside of me. I thought of my father and all the good times I had with him, and in a split second, tears began sliding down my cheeks. I hugged the painting; feeling closer then I had ever felt with my father. I let everything that has been piling up inside of me for a century escape, and I never grasped the thought that I, a ghost, was crying when I shouldn't have been.

     A small smile formed on my lips. I realized that even though my father was gone, he would now always be with me.

The End

Author's Note: Thanks to chocolateisamust for writing a paragraph in the story. And neomails are much appreciated. Thank you!

 
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