Ceiling Stars and Lies

She said, I know what it’s like to be dead. She didn’t mean it literally. I kind of wish she had; company would be nice. Most visitors can’t see me; occasionally, children or those close to death will catch glimpses of me. 

I was wandering through the dim hallways of the hotel when she spotted me. She strolled over and started a brief conversation. She was going to grab a drink before bed; she needed it to take her medication. She wandered off after making a grim joke about knowing what death feels like. She should have said she knows what it’s like to wish you were dead.

I assumed we wouldn’t see each other again, but the next morning she sat beside me in a garden tucked behind the hotel. We sat in comfortable silence under an old oak tree and watched the world together. Animals wandered around the garden, ducking into bushes and climbing up old trees. Flowers shifted as a breeze hit them. Ants trailed over cracked cobblestone paths. She left after a few hours; I stayed.

Now, as the sun is retreating, she returns and introduces herself properly; her name is Brooke. She’s staying at the hotel until she can move into her new place. I lie and tell her my name is Jack and that I’m here visiting family. I can’t risk my name coming up in conversation. I refuse to let the staff take away my only human interaction by sharing the way I was pinned down and stabbed.

I stand and begin walking to the hotel’s back entrance. She skips after me and begins rambling. I hope I never forget a word she says. She mentions the way she loves sunsets, but really prefers sunrises. They give her the comfort of starting her day with beauty. The way her childhood home looked. She spent hours painting little stars all over her ceiling. The way she found her first pet, a brindle boxer mix named Sarge. He was the only one who listened to her rants as a kid.

Once we get inside I imagine the indents her footsteps leave on the red carpet becoming permanent. I imagine shining tracks appearing tracing where she runs her fingers across the cream colored walls. I imagine the elevator button she presses staying forever lit up. I imagine stars coating the ceilings. I imagine every word she speaks being immortalized in the building I am eternally trapped by. I imagine that even after she leaves I won’t be so lonely.

I leave her at her door and start thinking of all the trivial details that only I ever knew. The story behind a miniscule scar on my forearm, the mountains and waterfalls I wanted to see, the place I kept old sketchbooks I could never bring myself to throw away. I decide to tell her everything. Except that I’m dead and my name is actually Greyson and I have been roaming these blood stained halls for a decade.

When the sun rises, I go to the oak tree in the garden. She’s standing beside it, a steaming mug resting in her hands. We exchange greetings and she sips her tea; we sit underneath old branches of the oak tree, she places her tea onto soft green grass while I stare up at golden leaves as I start to tell her about my old drawings. And then my scars, and my dreams.

I don’t notice when she moves to rest her hand on mine. I don’t notice how she is staring at our hands in horror. I don’t notice how her hand has fallen through mine and onto grass.

I notice when she pulls her hand back, covering her mouth. I notice when the warmth her hand brought to mine vanishes. I notice when the warmth of companionship fades.

I try to explain myself and tell her the truth. But my words are frantic and she doesn’t care. She vanishes. The traces of her don’t.

I go back to my red carpets and cream colored walls. I watch as the memories of her fade. The carpet doesn’t have footprints in it. There aren’t shining tracks that mark where Brooke dragged her fingers. The elevator buttons are all dim. The ceilings are plain. And I am alone.

Another decade passes before I see her again; she roams the hallways after checking into the same room. I call her name. She ignores me. I leave her be. After she leaves I go to her room. A note sits on the worn wooden dresser.

 It reads:

I’m writing this letter to give myself closure. I can’t move on if I don’t write this. You were a result of unbalanced medications. That’s why I couldn’t touch you. You were a hallucination that provided me comfort as I struggled after being kicked out at 18. You vanished as soon as I tried to touch you. I didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t live in a place where my sense of reality was warped. I didn’t know what was happening. The boy I had wandered through a hotel with while rambling to wasn’t real. How many people saw me talking to nothing? I left, panicked. I found a different hotel and a new psychiatrist. My therapist (also needed after imagining a whole person) told me to move forward. She says I need to heal from that time in my life. Thank you for listening, goodbye.

Sincerely,

Brooke

I let her memories vanish, the last traces of her dissipate. I wander through cream colored halls and start sifting through my memories of life. I begin to accept my grief over the life I never lived. I stop digging my heels into sorrow and nostalgia. I feel the pressure that has dug into my wrists for decades fade away. I finally slip into the peace of death.