That Ghost Just Isn’t Holy Anymore


The cliff was a welcoming place. The shore inspired with its waves telling stories of vast proportions and random emotions. The wind propelled ideas that could spread like sleep. The nearby tree spoke the truth that defied the lies spread vastly throughout the world. The grass, ever so soft, cushioned the little ideas that had yet to grow, swaying gently, cradling them. The gray skies set the mood, as cliché as could be, nevertheless a meaningful scenario.

“Love is not for me to have.” Debating with the shore’s deathly soft tides. The sand and rocks, his ideas, resisted the urge of the waves. It was persuasive, indeed, to change sides, to regain hope, and a love for life. The people, with their love of dear life, never understood why the sanity lay with the suicidal. They’d never understood the great truths that befell the great ones who have fallen. They never understood how the paint meant so much, how the words drew worlds, how the ideas dominated everything.

“I haven’t gone crazy, though I am sick like this weather, this storm.” His wrists bled. The razor in his hand, he marked the canvas with his own blood. The picture and poetry was for her. She, who had understood him. She who had once cared and loved the soul that had inhabited the castle of his body. Faceless in his words and images, he still drew her. The stains of repeated markings depicted the picture as chaos. It resonated with their relationship, echoing the idea throughout eternity.

“I still love you. It is possible; I have learned to love more than one.” She pleaded.

“Your heart then wanders, my love. It wanders far from the truth. You disgrace the tree.” He said, finishing off the painting. The paragraphs were already nailed to the canvas.

“Please. Let me bandage your wrists. Let met stop the bleeding. You needn’t be damned to hell for the sake of your art.” She begged; her voice cracking as she screamed with the wind.

“I tire, my love. I shall retire, and rest. There is no need for bandages.” He sat down, pulling out a cigarette. It was covered with his blood, no longer white but red. He set it ablaze with his lighter. He burned himself.

“Please! I’m begging you. Don’t do this! I NEED YOU IN MY LIFE! You do not deserve hell! You do not deserve to die!”

“I am already dead, my love. Fret not, for I choose this willingly.”

“I NEED YOU ALIVE!” She knelt and cried. The tears of a million slaves rolled from her eyes.

“You once understood me, darling. Recall the rain. Recall the field. Recall, as we spoke. You knew and understood then. Why not now?”

“I realize now, that I understood nothing.”

“Then your folly leads you here.”

“Please. Don’t do this. For me. I don’t want you in hell.”

“If this takes me to hell, it is a journey I must take, for the sake of this. I hope my martyrdom may be realized soon enough.”

He stood up, turned and faced the painting. He was as pale as the canvas was, before he’d given his life for it. He turned his head back to see her, still kneeling, drenched with her own regret which was dry compared to the tears she spilled. It pained him. Memories from their past rushed to his head, and he recalled every detail of their love. Every reason that made him want to live. He still needed her somehow.

He ran to her, embraced her. His heart rate slowed. He bled on her shirt. His breaths grew sharp and short, as tears rolled down his cheek. She walked with him to his painting, still in his embrace. They stood at the edge. Such a poetic scene shattered by a gunshot. His body fell off the cliff.

“If you only knew how much I loved you. I hope you somehow realize that this was for you. I hope you realize this sacrifice I make. I hope your spirit still makes it to heaven, as I know, I am to be damned. I hope you remember, my darling, I’ve damned myself for you. Know this, my dear: I love you.”


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