Obi Land

"Ghost"

Soft, melancholy notes drift through the slightly cracked door and waft through the open window to float away on the breeze. A sad, melodious sound, flowing, beautiful in and of itself. If only he could hear, If only I could hear it, the graceful lullaby, swimming though the air, originating from the wooden instrument in my arms.

The music reminds me. I wish I remembered how to live, to sing, to dance, to feel, and care. But then I realize, the only thing I am able to care for anymore is that I can't. Then I feel it returning again, like every time before, like every time after. The coil wraps around my neck, tight, rough, painful. I feel the stool rush from beneath my feet as someone kicks it from behind. The crowd laughs and cheers, crying out in joyous terror as my body grows limp.

I stand apart from myself, watching, willing just a single limb to twitch. But not one does. I am a corpse, hanging from the gallows, waiting to be taken down and discarded. In the room, with my guitar, I stand, and the instrument to falls to the cold stone floor. It hits with a crash jarring those in the next room. A maid scurries in, fearful that someone is hurt, but screams and runs when she sees only an empty room, an empty room with a classical guitar and a transparent child.

I float through the wall and away from the room, my room. I never left the room before. I remained there, hiding, ever since my death. I don't plan on returning any time soon. All I want, all I seek, all I need…. is peace.