The Ghost in the Attic

I stand upon the flimsy, wooden ladder and try to hold my breath. There is a girl sitting in my attic, by the tall, grey window. I watch her, careful not to make any sudden movements.

My fingers move through delicate cobwebs. Specs of dust float through the air and stick to the webs, the floor, and the piles of boxes pushed into the corners. A city of hidden memories: a box filled to the brim with picture books and novels, another holds so many lego bricks that if tipped over it would cover the floor in a tumbling sea of preemptive pain. A chocolate brown teddy bear reaches out of a box in the corner, stretching desperately toward the girl sitting by the window.

Her head is bent low to her knees. Glassy eyes peer out from a tangle of dark, brown hair. Wayward tears make their way down her cheeks and nose. Arms crossed tightly, her nails bite into her skin leaving little, red streaks across her elbows.

The ladder starts to creak before I notice that I’m moving toward her.

Her head jerks up. Her eyes are timid and uncertain, but not afraid.

I move cautiously.

“Are you okay?”

She was used to being asked this question, I know. However, even though I already know the monotonous answer, the question is not entirely pointless.

There are several times a day that people continue on past her without so much as batting an eyelash, even though they are aware of the pain she is in.

A hundred faces stare at her with distant pity.

They say: “there is nothing I can do about her pain, it is inside her. She has to figure it out for herself”.

All of their justifications sound the same. They all agree. They keep at a safe distance for fear that it is contagious, with their fingers crossed in superficial hope that she will pull herself out of her sadness.

Sometimes, though, it would help to have someone stand beside you, not simply observing from a distance.

If I had stood by and watched as she cried, I would have become nothing more to her than yet another pair of impatient eyes on the wall. So I asked the helpless question and she replied with a hopeless answer.

“I wish I was dead.”

The truth. No one is ever ready for the truth. They expect the habitual response of “I’m fine”, simply stated to avoid facing painful emotions.

“I wish you didn’t.”

“But I do. Sometimes I feel like I already am.”

“I used to think that once you thought like that, you already were.” I show her the milky, white scratches on my wrist that almost match hers. “But I know better now. Death is different. Life and death can both be cold and dark, but there is no warmth in death. There is no love, only loss and mourning.” I place my hand gently, hovering above her wrist. “You cannot hold the ones you love anymore if you are dead.”

“But I don’t think I can do this without you.” The tears begin to churn in her ocean blue eyes again. They beg for me to be with her. There is no way for me to explain that I am with her as much as I can be now. I cannot be with her the way that I used to be. I cannot hold her hand, only tell her it will be okay.

“You don’t have to. I’ll always be here.” It’s not a lie. I will always be here, in the attic. Even if I cannot always be by her side.

A distant voice climbs up from down the ladder and down the stairs.

“I have to go.”

“Give mum a hug from me.”

“I will.”

“Give her a hug from you too.”

“I will.”

The rickety ladder squeaks as my little sister races toward the smell of fresh, hot dinner.

It’s cold in my attic.