Illusory | ✓

i l l u s o r y : 05

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I L L U S O R Y : 05

Like an itch that won't leave, or a radio station fuzzy with static no matter how many times you turn the dial, my senses are on haywire during the weekend. In the corner of my eyes, no matter where I walk or what time of day it is, I can see them peering at me with wonderment or interest in their dead irises. They are the ghosts that are too far gone. The ones that have no messages for the ones that they once lived their lives with, the ones they communicated on a day routine with.

I call the ones with no purpose, no one to love anymore, the observers stuck seeing the portrait of life without them in it...the lost ones. The ones from different centuries, different decades, the ones that died during The Civil War or were murdered brutally within a flicker of a snap of a wrist. They are the ones that I can't help, the ones that don't know I can tell them they can cross over, and the ones that fear me or despise me.

Soldiers with mutated arms, limbs and people with blood streaking their clothes are a constant sight that grows more ever present with each turn of the neck I give. Where normal teenagers can find solace in the weekend, I get a constant reminder that I'm not normal and hungover like headaches.

On Sunday, church is fine to some extent. There are members of my church family that believe that my family has bought a first class ticket to Hell and that no matter how many times we plead with the Lord that we will stray from the path and be in the company of the Devil.

So sitting in the middle of a wooden pew with a scratchy yellow dress and skin hued tights along with white high heels, I can't help but wish that I could be at my cousin Monica's church. Unlike my parents and me, who go to a Baptist church, Monica goes to a Methodist church and is allowed to wear t-shirts and jeans. Mom and Dad make me dress up for church, in my scratchiest dress and done up hair that would put a little girl from Toddler and Tiaras to shame.

The only good thing about it is that I get to see Bridger, who is sitting currently in the pew in front of me with his crisp white dress shirt and dark washed jeans, along with black dress shoes being another reminder that he is looks the uppermost perfection at the moment. Even with the black tie in front of his button up shirt undone and one of his sleeves rolled up to secretly see how long the service will last he makes peering at him more interesting than making awkward eye contact with some of the older members of the church peering at me and my parents with irritable distaste.

Smiling softly at Bridger when we stand up and start singing along with the more traditional Christian songs, I can't help but crane my head to the side and feel my heart skip a beat when I notice him nervously scratching the nape of his neck with his mom tells him to sing a little louder.

When church ends, and families cluster together to talk about bible study and which house the group should go to, I'm welcomed by Bridger turning around in his pew and giving me a small smirk. My knees go jello like as I bite the corner of my lip, knowing that he probably knew I was silently checking him out during service.

Which, if my mom realized that...she'd be upset with me. She's a strong southern Baptist woman, raised by an even stronger southern Baptist woman. Not paying attention to the sermon would mean a mild scolding. But what else would I expect from living in The Bible Belt?

"Hi, Bridger," I meekly manage to spit out in a quiet greeting as he observes me for a few more odd seconds. Then as if he has decided not to mention the checking out I did to him, he merely answers me back.

"Hey Jane." Bridger starts moving towards the end of the pew, as we notice that everyone has moved to the cafe in the church. We make our way towards the doors that lead into the cafe, the both of us hovering near each other.