GHOSTED

2

December 8, 2020

The next morning had awoken me up very early. I strode past the two rooms before I had gone to the stairs, and directly went to the kitchen to make a coffee for myself. With a cozy coat wrapped around my skin, I pushed the main door of the lovely house — revealing the thick snow covering my dad’s car, my grandmothers lawn, and the wooden stairs headed to the balcony where I sat. 

The entire day was cold, but my dad went fishing near the lake when we arrived in the village from school. He carried his equipment, and I had myself ready to watch him catching fishes during the Christmas season.

A single aluminum bucket filled with fresh fishes dangling from my tight grip, I treaded from the wooden bridge where dad had occupied. His broad shoulders filling my sight as his steady pace went on in front of me.
I instantly thought we're up to home, but he turned the other way.

A mini store made by logs with lit candles in a cage surprised me. The tiny bell hanging from the door dinged as dad pushed the slightly loose door. The shop did not have much of a space. It wasn’t clearly attractive, too, frankly. There were empty, wooden boxes stacked above the other, clothes that might never be bought by anyone, few shovels about to be fully covered in rust, and a pile of black gloves dominating the uppermost part of another wooden stall.

The cashier area was dull as well, a lone man with a mustache guarding the shop that held a newspaper allowed me to conclude that he owned this place.

My dad approached him, their faces lighting up in joy and amusement like they were acquaintances. They looked like they were.

I looked at him when my dad introduced the grown man to me. He’s named Shane, and he knew my father since they were in high school. We shared handshakes and smiles, and then I left once they started talking and asking how the both of them have been doing so far. I knew I’d look like a third wheeler, so I ended up going back to the place dad had gathered fishes.

The lake was sleeping, and I stared at it for minutes. The thought of grabbing my camera ran across my mind as I sat in silence. I scanned for my coat, the soft sounds of the thick fabric filling my ears. The camera was out of place. I thought about it thoroughly before I took my pace. The coat I had worn was the only coat where I insert my camera, and there’s no way I could have left it somewhere.

Well, maybe I did.

Slowly walking to the tree I had gone to yesterday, I remembered the guy I met. Let’s say I felt kind of guilty as the actions I did to him sunk in me where I didn’t even say hello. Rolling my eyes has been necessary, so I did — removing the sympathy lurking in the back of my mind. Whatever.

Untouched like a tiny bud of a flower above the crust, I found my camera fortunately not crushed or damp from the drizzle. I picked it up, checked the lenses, then had it hanging from my wrist. I took a single shot of the mesmerizing lake only to caught a figure of someone’s head on the corner of my camera after the shutter.

“We m-met yesterday… and I haven’t told you my name, right? I… um, yeah. My n-name is Johnny. I’m happy to s-see you once again…” He expected me to say my name as he made the last sentence uncertain.

I glared it him, but his eyes were as hopeful as the look on his face.

“Heather,” I uttered, lack of interest discreetly unfolded through my tired eyes.

He flashed a smile — an innocent smile — sending me chills to the bone which was, somehow, weird. It was something I have never felt before.

I watched him grab a random stick from the tree that had become our roof.

12. 08. 2020

Heather spoke to me.

“You’re a fucking weirdo,” I deadpanned.

A light laugh escaped from his mouth. His eyes turned like a lower half of a perfect circle flipped vertically.

“I think I am.”