“Addy.”
“No!” I shout and my voice trails, echoing as it travels along the cleared muddy path. “Why are you doing this? Why?”
I try to lift my head again and I succeed, but only to rest it in the crook of my elbow. My eyes are on the ground and I notice a pair of brown shoes, an added accessory to the forest debris along the path. My eyes travel upward, taking in Damien's appearance. He doesn't look like the Damien I was seeing when I was in Oakhill. He looks like he did the last time I saw him. He looks the way he did a second before he died.
I suck in breath that I can't release. My lips quiver at the sight of the dried blood on his light blue button up. His skin is pale, his lips gray. And the haunting, lifeless look in his blue eyes is too much to bear. I blanch and look away. “No,” I cry. “No.”
He moves closer, twigs snapping beneath his feet, followed by a rustling of dead leaves. My body goes rigid. Panic flushes through my blood stream. I can feel him right next me and his cold, rancid breath fans across my face. I inhale then exhale quickly, gagging on the way he tastes, like a dug up corpse. “What's the matter, Addy?” His fingers are in my hair and his voice is eerie. Emotionless.
This is not my Damien. This is not my Damien. This is not my Damien.
I repeat the words in my head. This is not my Damien. He's a manifestation of my mind similar to a nightmare. “Stop,” I whisper, thinking that pleading might actually work.
I'm wrong.
The dead vision of the love of life laughs. The laugh isn't pleasant. It's dark, cold, and evil. He pets my head and repeats his previous question, “What's the matter, Addy?” His fingers feel like slime as they slide across my skin. They keep sliding and sliding, and they send a shiver of fear down my spine. I shudder and use all the strength I have to pull away from him. I stare into his dead eyes. “But I thought you loved me?” His clammy grayish skin bunches on his forehead.
Yes. Loved is the key word.
Will always are another two.
There will always be a part of me that loves him. There will always be a part of me that remembers the Damien I met one summer on a dirt road in West Des Moines, Iowa. The Damien who was beautiful, smart, caring, and funny. The Damien who stole my heart, promised to love me forever, and had plans for our future.
A future that was cut short and killed by my evil, conflicted father.
I have since learned that even though a part of me will always love him that doesn't mean I can continue to love him the way I used to. Because he's dead. I have to remind myself of this often. And this too; I can't go on loving a poltergeist for the rest of my life.
I think of my Damien and I know he wouldn't want this for me. He'd want me to remember what we had, but he'd want me to move on. He'd want me to try and do all the things I wanted to do. He'd want me to try and find love again.
Some day.
“I did love you,” I tell him. “I loved you more than...” I stumble on my words. “I loved you more than I loved myself. I never thought I'd be able to get over what happened to you. Or get over the thought of living my life without you.”
He sneers and steps closer to me, backing me up into another tree. The rough grated bark digs into my skin at the top of my back and I wince, but push through the pain. “But you have, haven't you Adelaide?” His hands are placed above me on the tree trunk and he hovers over me. I will myself to look into his eyes and it's like he's shifted into a different Damien.
He's my Damien.
The color is back in his skin. His blue eyes are vibrant and twinkling. “I can make you love me like you used to,” he says with confidence.
“Damien.” Tears water in my eyes and spill down my cheeks. Guilt whips through my stomach and my fingers begin trembling. “You're dead,” I croak.
He flashes me a bright smile then drops one hand from the tree trunk and slides it around my waist. “Ridiculous,” he hisses through his teeth. “Would a dead person be able to do this?” In one swift shift of his hips, he pins me against the tree and places his lips on my neck. I close my eyes, ignoring the silent pleas inside of my head that are telling me that this isn't right. That there is something very, very wrong with this scenario. Damien places his lips against my ear and murmurs, “Tell me Addy, would a dead person be able to do this?” He gently tugs on my lower earlobe with his teeth. “Or this?” His free hand climbs up my stomach beneath the fabric of my hospital gown. “Or even this?” He crushes his mouth against mine and kisses me softly. The kiss twists from soft and sensual, to hungry and passionate in a second.
But then it's like out of nowhere things begin to fall apart again. His bare hand on my skin makes goosebumps rise all over my arms and legs. A nervous, uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. His lips are icy and the feel of them stalls my beating heart. Something about this interlude makes all of the blood in my body run cold. His hand begins a downward descent, fingers skimming my lower abdomen. Every part of me is conflicted. It's like I have two voices in my head shouting different things.
Damien's fingertips dip below the band of my underwear and he whispers, “Do you like this, Addy? Do you love it when I touch you here?”
No. No. No. “Yes.”
“I know you do.” I realize there is something different about his voice. It's lower, more gravelly.
More deadly.
“Because you're a whore.” My eyes snap open and my lungs clench. “Just like your mother.”
Daddy stands in front of me. He pumps his shot gun. “No!” I scream at the top of my lungs. The way my scream pierces the night air makes all the birds in the trees fly away.
I want to be a bird right now.