Boo

There has always been a story that I want to tell. It's a ghost story that I have witnessed myself. When I say ghost story, I don't mean anything bad, nor good. It's simply something that I saw a long time ago which continues to haunt me even until today.

It occurred every summer. The melancholy. Whenever the heat approaches, it was as if a lost soul have arrived to take refugee, as if it can't find its way home. Perhaps the cool breeze of the night, perhaps the heat itself, the emptiness only seem to deepen. After a long day, I was finally alone. But in fact, I was alone all the time when I'm in the house, at least that is what the memory tells me. In the mist of vapour and soap, I looked into the mirror and was bewildered by my own frightened glare. My room was on the first floor, and no one can have any idea how the dark walk down the heavy steps on the creaking stairs almost drove me mad. I lied on the bed. Still hot from the shower. I thought about things, all kinds of things. The work at school, the food to prepare, the errands to finish, the wind outside, the struggle inside. Slowly my feet went cold and then my hands. I stayed motionless until the faint scent of my face puts me to sleep.

No sound was needed to wake me from the short break. The wind took care of it. It seems to linger around beside my bed every night, as it has nowhere else to go. Despite dried from eyes to lips, I would drag myself up to embrace the weak yellow rays seeping through the window. There it was again, a new day. The house was the way as it was, nothing was moved, nothing was missing, nothing was changed. Only time did. I walked down the corridor, and felt especially cold, I intentionally left the windows open to let the fresh air in, but I regretted. The quiet and empty living room made it worse.

I felt deprived of all energy, yet still spent every effort to swallow the dry toast down my throat. Walked out of the house, school bag on the back, pulled myself over the bicycle, my legs still ache from previous day's running routine. I grabbed onto the cold handle, and struggled to step to make an advance. I felt lonely again. There was only me traversing through the streets. For a second I thought I dreamed of the end of the world. My imagination did not stop until a car streaming by. That was when I realised that I wasn't not the last one on Earth yet, quite relieved I was. The cold wind cut through every inch of me, yet I imagined myself as Le Petit Prince, flying. Shall I be La Petite Princess? On the way to school, the smell was amazing, yet confusing, ranged from rotten wood, fresh pines, to ripped wild berries and chemically produced fertilizer. A portion of my arms were cold. I hate such imbalances in body temperature.

In the bland classrooms, I sat there motionless, I tried listening to rants of numbers, yet instead all I heard was the ventilator's breathing sound. Time travelled slow sometimes. I tried not to be rude, but the dry air worked well with the monotone, I had to close my eyes. It's getting colder.

I liked to run, not because I really enjoy the process of moving around, but because I enjoy the effects on my body. Running was the only activity that made me feel I was still alive. I liked how it makes my lungs become violent, lusting for air. I enjoyed how it made me drench with the sweet sweat, as if I'm sweating for my own survival.... Sometimes the blazing sun makes it even better, it felt so good. I stopped, the wind blew against me, my body felt the coolness.

In the afternoon it was a different story. The heat totally took over. My whole body starts to ache after the running routine. I rode my bike back, all of a sudden there was nobody beside me. No, wait, for the whole time there hasn't been anyone other than myself. I started to wonder how long had I not spoken to anyone yet? I said hi to my cat, the only living creature who would care to greet me.

The point of this ghost story is for the sake of memory. In here there is indeed a ghost. It's me.