Trevor Jones | Sayantan Halder
This house is full of ghosts. I can almost see them in the corners, vague shapes just out of focus, troubling but in some ways reassuring. A constant.
It’s worse when they come out of hiding. Too clear, too vivid, too real. Looking straight at me from those blue eyes, giving that flick of the hair and the smile that freezes my heart. That’s when I can’t cope, when they all look like you.
You busy in the kitchen trying a new recipe, you engrossed in another computer game isolated in your make believe world, you stepping out of the shower, pink, wet , teasing — happy. God, that really hurts.
At night I still hear you drifting from room to room, searching for something, or maybe someone, to provide that missing piece that will stop you feeling so restless. Why wasn’t it me?
I tried, you know I did, and at times I thought I’d made it, but Ghosts are always impossible to pin down.
Even when you settled in my arms, a part of you was always somewhere else. You were haunted by your own demons, your ghosts.
Why couldn’t I ever banish them?
Where did I fail?
Will I always be haunted by your ghost?