Pour Toujours
Chapter 1
Annabelle: I’m so glad ghosts can’t self-harm. Otherwise, I’d be screwed over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James.
James.
James.
That name replayed in my head, over and over again, haunting me more than the memory of the searing hot flames eating me alive. James. The one who could have saved me. James. The one who ignored me even though I loved him with all my heart. James. The one that led me to my death. That led me here, to my 140th anniversary.
“Happy deathday to me,” I sang softly to myself, as I made my way downstairs of the hellhole I wallow away in. “Happy deathday to me.”
While normal people celebrate birthdays, or wedding anniversaries, I celebrate my deathday. Rather moodily, but still, I try to make the most of my years alone, in miserable solitude.
Ha, solitude sounds too peaceful. More like solitary confinement.
I adjusted my simple white slip as I floated over to the unfurnished family room.
Yes, I float. Don’t all ghosts? I
stretched out my translucent, pale hand and flicked it towards the ground, having the carpet smooth out as I sat, well, hovered, cross legged on the carpet. Just another year gone by, Annabelle. Just another year of what I have done for the past 140 years. Waiting, and crying, and waiting some more. Perhaps the occasional haunting to my ‘roommates’, who will be stupid enough share the house with me from time to time.
I sighed, having it echo across the empty walls. Just another year, exactly like the rest. Exactly like the…
-CREAK!
I jumped, flying up in the air as I hear the fated garage door opening, painstakingly slow, but still opening. No! More people can’t be here! They’ll ruin any chance I ever had to close out society! Voices, maybe arguing, was rising rapidly as I turned invisible to the human eye as I heard the laundry room door open with a screeching noise.
“Give it a rest, Liam!” I heard the thick British accent of an older woman call out sharply. “We are moving here, and we are staying until you graduate, which is another year because of the U.S. That’s final!”
I heard a groan of a young man’s, probably Liam’s, voice, and the exasperated sigh of the woman, whoever this ‘Liam’ was talking to. “I know it’s not the most currently designed house, but it’s just what your father and I wanted, Liam. Away, in a smaller, more secluded down, everything Wolverhapmton wasn’t. Think of it as a fixer-upper!”
Another groan issued from Liam, who must be the son of the woman.
Great. Another boy who sounds my age to remind me of my eternally broken heart.
“If it makes you feel any better, we’re giving you the biggest room. Your father and I looked online, and we found the room for you yesterday!” The woman said rather hopefully, as if a bedroom might change the fact that the boy sounds quite unhappy.
Whatever. It’s probably one of the guest bedrooms, not that big of a deal. I started to make my way towards the voices, still invisible, so I could see my next victims.
Oops, I meant houseguests.
“It’s the whole 3rd floor! It has a deck, your own bathroom, with an incredible square footage of-“ The women continued to ramble on as I gasped sharply and stopped in my tracks. That’s my room. Oh, hell no, unknown person. You are not going to have my room. I’m drawing the line there.
I picked up the pace as I turned the corner, getting closer and closer to the voices in the mudroom. I surged in before they could say anything else and I could see their faces at ease, but I almost fainted to what I saw.
I saw 3 people, about what I suspected. I saw a pretty, petite, lady, about 45 years old, it looks like, along with a tall man with graying hair, also looking about 45. But, that wasn’t what I was freaking out about. Between them, standing impatiently, was a tall young man, about 17 years old, it looked like. He had light, soft brown hair styled in a quiff, with the most dreamy, sensitive coffee brown eyes that he rolled in annoyance, probably meant towards his mother.
To anyone else, anyone besides me, he just seems like any other teenage boy, maybe a little more good looking, but, otherwise, the same as any other. But, to me, he was much, much more than that. Every detail about that boy, everything, I had seen it before. That, hair, that hair that I had always wanted to run my fingers through, just to feel it. Those lips, those soft, pink, luscious lips, I always wanted pressed against my own. And those eyes. Those eyes that never looked over at me.Those eyes that watched me die, those eyes that could have slipped me out of my phantom-state. But, that’s impossible. It can’t be. It’s not. But it is, my ghostly imagination taunted me, thinking of how this could be possible. Because, in no way, no way possible, I could be staring at the face, the body, the living statue of him. But, I was.
Behold, standing in front of me, a perfect replica of the late James Ellers, straight from 1874.
*Flashback*
“Why must I have to go to school, Father?” I begged to my father, who was right outside my new bedroom of the biggest house that was ever invented, or, at least, the biggest house I’ve ever seen.
“Annabelle, you need to go to school. I know this is tough for you, leaving your mother, learning a whole different language fluently and changing your name, but you’re going to have to go.” I sighed, not daring to argue with my father.
“I can’t speak English as well as the others,” I grumbled, fidgeting with my new dress, which made me look like I was going to a funeral, it’s that boring. Oh, well, It’s the nicest dress I have, and I guess Father wanted me to make a professional first impression.
"Relax, Annabelle, people will accept you. La Conner is a French settlement, remember? Everyone here is either a French immigrant or someone who has French ancestry.” My dad reassured me as we walked out of by bedroom, down the 2 flights of stairs and out of the house, using my new American name I had been given to me buy my dad, as I wanted to sound more “American” and less “French”, accordingly. I grunted in reply, basking in the proper manners I was taught as I child. I was in America now; there really wasn’t a need for my proper French lady etiquette.
“Grab your schoolbook,” my dad reminded me, as I shoved them all in my new handbag my mother sent with me. We walked down the cobblestone streets in front of our house, down past the marina to the schoolhouse I was going to attend.
We lived in the house adjoined and above the seed shop my father owned, apparently the go-to destination for anyone who lived in this town.
My mother and father were married for a short period of time 12 years back; she was a French girl whose father was an associate to Napoleon during his reign. My father, on the other hand, was a completely normal helping hand in the Civil War, a cartographer for Ulysses S. Grant for the Union Army. He was sent to map out the places of the Oregon Territory, or the territory of Washington, as many of the locals called it. He moved here, in the French settlement or La Conner, and met my mother, who was visiting an aunt or something. She was only supposed to stay a summer, but she ended up staying 6 years, having the lovely child that I turned out to be in the 4th year of her stay. She, along with little 2 year-old Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison, had to go back to France, on her father’s command. My father, heartbroken, resorted to gardening in the little sod square he head as a garden. Little did her know, that little square of sod and that drunkenpassion would resort to the largest seed shop in all of the Oregon Territory, along with the love and support of the community that would fill the empty void that Musetta Estelle Cholmondeley and Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison once occupied.
Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison, that’s me. Or, Annabelle Davison, as my new American name dictated. Sorry, stated. Dictated is what my father did when he made me go to school to finish up my years of hell before I went to study fashion back in Paris, something I had always dreamed of. I probably would be there now, if it wasn’t for my mother, who wanted me to “Spend the last moments of my innocence with my father before I become my own independent young lady, with no one to depend on but myself.”
“We’re here!” My father announced, pointing to the one room schoolhouse that I will have to learn to love, I mean tolerate.I could never love school, not until all arithmetic leaves those rotten back-breakers they call books.
“Do you know how to get home?” my father asked me as he straightened my dress collar. “Yes, father,” I replied obediently.
“Good,” He stepped back, admired me for a second, and then turned around.
“I expect you to be home by 2:10,” He turned one last time, nodded curtly, and promptly left.
Well, that was unexpected.
No, “I know this is going to be hard for you, Annabelle.”
Or, “Why don’t I come in with you, meet your teacher, just the normal things we do when a girl starts school 2 weeks late.”
I didn’t even get a “Let’s your teacher know that you JUST LEARNED HOW TO SPEAK FLUENT ENGLISH LAST MONTH!”
Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. But those 15 years of not being a parent really got to him, I might add. I know he loves me, but I think he loves the little 2 year old Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison that he raised, not the 17 year old Annabelle Davison that he has offered to board for 2 more years.
I sighed. “This is it,”
I fiddled with my dress some more.
“First time in America, first time to try to make friends,” I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath.
“You can do this.”
I nodded and stepped in the classroom, having everyone’s eyes on me. Well, everyone’s, except one. Lovely. First 2 seconds and I'm already that weird freak who doesn't know how to count past 67 in English.
“Are you Annabelle?” A girl with pretty black, straight hair rushed up to me, almost knocking me off my feet. She saw my startled expression and let out a little laugh, covering it up quickly. “Your father couldn’t stop talking about his lovely daughter is coming to spend the last 2 years of her childhood with him. And you must be her!”
“Yes!” I answered, quite startled, still ever after the explanation. I didn’t know some new girl was going to make such a big splash here.
“I’m Catherine and I love your hair!” The overly excited girl blurted out, smiling as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. I blushed, patting down the bold curls that I’ve always thought of as a pain in the ass.
“Thank you, Catherine. Your hair is quite lovely, if I may add,” I smiled at her, knowing we would get along quite well. Red flushed through Catherine’s cheeks as she grabbed my hand, navigating me through the chairs as she spout off random names, giving me a quick glimpse of everyone as she led me to the teacher’s desk. "You'll meet a lot of people here in La Conner, but it is a small town, so you should be able to know everybody."
“There’s Benjamin, Damian, Lucy, Jane,” She rattled off, not realizing that I could not put a name to a face fi someone paid me to. “Michael, Theo, Clément, Franklin,” My eyes moved at rapid speed as I saw at least 80 kids in this schoolhouse, which was bigger than I thought it would be. “We all kind of look the same,” Catherine added, and I took that into account. I grazed everyone, and a sea of ebony met my eyes. Black, black, black, black, sandy brown, black, black. Wait… My eyes trailed back to the spot of uncertain, and my eyes met the most beautiful shade of brown I have ever seen. It was like when I visited Biarritz Beach for my 14th birthday, but softer to the touch. At least, I think so. He was turned around, but facing a mirror on the far wall so I could see his face.
He’s… wow. Just, wow. I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. Yet that boy isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to me, I am head over heels in love with him. Sweet Jesus. “Who’s that boy?” I elbowed Catherine out of her name-trance and she focused on my gaze. “Oh,” her voice softened. “That’s James.”
*End of Flashback*
The tears. Overwhelming me as I fled to my room, not caring that James, I mean Liam, might step into it at any time. James. Liam. Whoever he is, he’s just here to haunt me. Remind me about the hell I’ve been through for 140 years.
That’s right, 140 years.
I flung the door open, even though I didn’t need to, and hovered over the dusty bed someone once occupied. I cried, and cried, and cried, just like every single day for 140 years. 51135 days. My ghostly tears disappeared like vapor, only making me cry more when I remember what state I’m in. I thought of all the words swirling in my head, everything that’s gone on in my life, my prolonged, depressing life. I imagined a melody in my head, and I hummed a few verses before I started singing, tears still drippig down my face.
You're never gonna love me, so what's the use?
What's the point in playing a game you're gonna lose?
My voice trembled, but I sang on. When It gets too painful, I sing. Most girls cut, I’ve heard, but, being a ghost, I cannot. I’m so glad ghosts can’t self-harm. Otherwise, I’d be screwed over.
What's the point in saying you love me like a friend?
What's the point in saying it's never gonna end?
You're too proud to say that you've made a mistake
You're a coward to the end
I don't wanna admit that we're not gonna fit
No, I'm not the type that you like
Why don't we just pretend?
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
I can't let you go, can't let you go oh
I just want it to be perfect
To believe it's all been worth the fight
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
You only ever touch me in the dark
Only if we're drinking can you see my spark
And only in the evening could you give yourself to me
Cause the night is your woman, and she'll set you free
You're too proud to say that you've made a mistake
You're a coward to the end
I don't wanna admit that we're not gonna fit
No, I'm not the type that you like
Why don't we just pretend?
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
I can't let you go, can't let you go oh
I just want it to be perfect
To believe it's all been worth the fight
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
I can't let you go, can't let you go oh
I just want it to be perfect
To believe it's all been worth the fight
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh...
My voice cracked as I finished, having the tears replace the song as I slumped in defeat.
“Holy shit.” I heard a familiar voice, and I whipped around to see Liam, I mean James, or whoever, standing in the doorway like he had seen a ghost, ever though he hadn’t (I was still invisible). He had just heard one. “Mom!” he stumbled out of the room, and the crying started yet again as I paced, well, floated, around the room, then going to sit back o. The only times people had heard me was when I was scaring the shit out of them. Not when I was singing my eternal feelings out in a heart-breaking ballad.
“Mom, I’m not joking!” Liam came back into the room, sitting down on the bed literally 5 inches away from me, sending u a cloud of dust. He even sounds like James, I thought miserably. “She was fucking amazing,” He muttered, looking down at his folded hands and getting up, walking out of our room.
Our room. Our house. He’s just like every other housemate I’ve ever had. He’s not James, Annabelle. But he looks like James, my conscious reminded me. He talks like James, he acts like James. Maybe he could break your curse. “Shut up!” I screamed, hearing something break downstairs and a “I told you so!” Issued from Liam.
“I’m never getting out of her. I'm cursed. No one would love a ghost.”
My ever so wimpy self issued more tears to return, and I croaked out the first verse of the song I just sang.
It describes my life. I mean, I gave up a long time ago. Liam is not James; I will live in eternity with no one.
Nothing will change, Annabelle.
Never.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James.
James.
James.
That name replayed in my head, over and over again, haunting me more than the memory of the searing hot flames eating me alive. James. The one who could have saved me. James. The one who ignored me even though I loved him with all my heart. James. The one that led me to my death. That led me here, to my 140th anniversary.
“Happy deathday to me,” I sang softly to myself, as I made my way downstairs of the hellhole I wallow away in. “Happy deathday to me.”
While normal people celebrate birthdays, or wedding anniversaries, I celebrate my deathday. Rather moodily, but still, I try to make the most of my years alone, in miserable solitude.
Ha, solitude sounds too peaceful. More like solitary confinement.
I adjusted my simple white slip as I floated over to the unfurnished family room.
Yes, I float. Don’t all ghosts? I
stretched out my translucent, pale hand and flicked it towards the ground, having the carpet smooth out as I sat, well, hovered, cross legged on the carpet. Just another year gone by, Annabelle. Just another year of what I have done for the past 140 years. Waiting, and crying, and waiting some more. Perhaps the occasional haunting to my ‘roommates’, who will be stupid enough share the house with me from time to time.
I sighed, having it echo across the empty walls. Just another year, exactly like the rest. Exactly like the…
-CREAK!
I jumped, flying up in the air as I hear the fated garage door opening, painstakingly slow, but still opening. No! More people can’t be here! They’ll ruin any chance I ever had to close out society! Voices, maybe arguing, was rising rapidly as I turned invisible to the human eye as I heard the laundry room door open with a screeching noise.
“Give it a rest, Liam!” I heard the thick British accent of an older woman call out sharply. “We are moving here, and we are staying until you graduate, which is another year because of the U.S. That’s final!”
I heard a groan of a young man’s, probably Liam’s, voice, and the exasperated sigh of the woman, whoever this ‘Liam’ was talking to. “I know it’s not the most currently designed house, but it’s just what your father and I wanted, Liam. Away, in a smaller, more secluded down, everything Wolverhapmton wasn’t. Think of it as a fixer-upper!”
Another groan issued from Liam, who must be the son of the woman.
Great. Another boy who sounds my age to remind me of my eternally broken heart.
“If it makes you feel any better, we’re giving you the biggest room. Your father and I looked online, and we found the room for you yesterday!” The woman said rather hopefully, as if a bedroom might change the fact that the boy sounds quite unhappy.
Whatever. It’s probably one of the guest bedrooms, not that big of a deal. I started to make my way towards the voices, still invisible, so I could see my next victims.
Oops, I meant houseguests.
“It’s the whole 3rd floor! It has a deck, your own bathroom, with an incredible square footage of-“ The women continued to ramble on as I gasped sharply and stopped in my tracks. That’s my room. Oh, hell no, unknown person. You are not going to have my room. I’m drawing the line there.
I picked up the pace as I turned the corner, getting closer and closer to the voices in the mudroom. I surged in before they could say anything else and I could see their faces at ease, but I almost fainted to what I saw.
I saw 3 people, about what I suspected. I saw a pretty, petite, lady, about 45 years old, it looks like, along with a tall man with graying hair, also looking about 45. But, that wasn’t what I was freaking out about. Between them, standing impatiently, was a tall young man, about 17 years old, it looked like. He had light, soft brown hair styled in a quiff, with the most dreamy, sensitive coffee brown eyes that he rolled in annoyance, probably meant towards his mother.
To anyone else, anyone besides me, he just seems like any other teenage boy, maybe a little more good looking, but, otherwise, the same as any other. But, to me, he was much, much more than that. Every detail about that boy, everything, I had seen it before. That, hair, that hair that I had always wanted to run my fingers through, just to feel it. Those lips, those soft, pink, luscious lips, I always wanted pressed against my own. And those eyes. Those eyes that never looked over at me.Those eyes that watched me die, those eyes that could have slipped me out of my phantom-state. But, that’s impossible. It can’t be. It’s not. But it is, my ghostly imagination taunted me, thinking of how this could be possible. Because, in no way, no way possible, I could be staring at the face, the body, the living statue of him. But, I was.
Behold, standing in front of me, a perfect replica of the late James Ellers, straight from 1874.
*Flashback*
“Why must I have to go to school, Father?” I begged to my father, who was right outside my new bedroom of the biggest house that was ever invented, or, at least, the biggest house I’ve ever seen.
“Annabelle, you need to go to school. I know this is tough for you, leaving your mother, learning a whole different language fluently and changing your name, but you’re going to have to go.” I sighed, not daring to argue with my father.
“I can’t speak English as well as the others,” I grumbled, fidgeting with my new dress, which made me look like I was going to a funeral, it’s that boring. Oh, well, It’s the nicest dress I have, and I guess Father wanted me to make a professional first impression.
"Relax, Annabelle, people will accept you. La Conner is a French settlement, remember? Everyone here is either a French immigrant or someone who has French ancestry.” My dad reassured me as we walked out of by bedroom, down the 2 flights of stairs and out of the house, using my new American name I had been given to me buy my dad, as I wanted to sound more “American” and less “French”, accordingly. I grunted in reply, basking in the proper manners I was taught as I child. I was in America now; there really wasn’t a need for my proper French lady etiquette.
“Grab your schoolbook,” my dad reminded me, as I shoved them all in my new handbag my mother sent with me. We walked down the cobblestone streets in front of our house, down past the marina to the schoolhouse I was going to attend.
We lived in the house adjoined and above the seed shop my father owned, apparently the go-to destination for anyone who lived in this town.
My mother and father were married for a short period of time 12 years back; she was a French girl whose father was an associate to Napoleon during his reign. My father, on the other hand, was a completely normal helping hand in the Civil War, a cartographer for Ulysses S. Grant for the Union Army. He was sent to map out the places of the Oregon Territory, or the territory of Washington, as many of the locals called it. He moved here, in the French settlement or La Conner, and met my mother, who was visiting an aunt or something. She was only supposed to stay a summer, but she ended up staying 6 years, having the lovely child that I turned out to be in the 4th year of her stay. She, along with little 2 year-old Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison, had to go back to France, on her father’s command. My father, heartbroken, resorted to gardening in the little sod square he head as a garden. Little did her know, that little square of sod and that drunkenpassion would resort to the largest seed shop in all of the Oregon Territory, along with the love and support of the community that would fill the empty void that Musetta Estelle Cholmondeley and Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison once occupied.
Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison, that’s me. Or, Annabelle Davison, as my new American name dictated. Sorry, stated. Dictated is what my father did when he made me go to school to finish up my years of hell before I went to study fashion back in Paris, something I had always dreamed of. I probably would be there now, if it wasn’t for my mother, who wanted me to “Spend the last moments of my innocence with my father before I become my own independent young lady, with no one to depend on but myself.”
“We’re here!” My father announced, pointing to the one room schoolhouse that I will have to learn to love, I mean tolerate.I could never love school, not until all arithmetic leaves those rotten back-breakers they call books.
“Do you know how to get home?” my father asked me as he straightened my dress collar. “Yes, father,” I replied obediently.
“Good,” He stepped back, admired me for a second, and then turned around.
“I expect you to be home by 2:10,” He turned one last time, nodded curtly, and promptly left.
Well, that was unexpected.
No, “I know this is going to be hard for you, Annabelle.”
Or, “Why don’t I come in with you, meet your teacher, just the normal things we do when a girl starts school 2 weeks late.”
I didn’t even get a “Let’s your teacher know that you JUST LEARNED HOW TO SPEAK FLUENT ENGLISH LAST MONTH!”
Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. But those 15 years of not being a parent really got to him, I might add. I know he loves me, but I think he loves the little 2 year old Angelique Renée Cholmondeley-Davison that he raised, not the 17 year old Annabelle Davison that he has offered to board for 2 more years.
I sighed. “This is it,”
I fiddled with my dress some more.
“First time in America, first time to try to make friends,” I muttered to myself. I took a deep breath.
“You can do this.”
I nodded and stepped in the classroom, having everyone’s eyes on me. Well, everyone’s, except one. Lovely. First 2 seconds and I'm already that weird freak who doesn't know how to count past 67 in English.
“Are you Annabelle?” A girl with pretty black, straight hair rushed up to me, almost knocking me off my feet. She saw my startled expression and let out a little laugh, covering it up quickly. “Your father couldn’t stop talking about his lovely daughter is coming to spend the last 2 years of her childhood with him. And you must be her!”
“Yes!” I answered, quite startled, still ever after the explanation. I didn’t know some new girl was going to make such a big splash here.
“I’m Catherine and I love your hair!” The overly excited girl blurted out, smiling as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. I blushed, patting down the bold curls that I’ve always thought of as a pain in the ass.
“Thank you, Catherine. Your hair is quite lovely, if I may add,” I smiled at her, knowing we would get along quite well. Red flushed through Catherine’s cheeks as she grabbed my hand, navigating me through the chairs as she spout off random names, giving me a quick glimpse of everyone as she led me to the teacher’s desk. "You'll meet a lot of people here in La Conner, but it is a small town, so you should be able to know everybody."
“There’s Benjamin, Damian, Lucy, Jane,” She rattled off, not realizing that I could not put a name to a face fi someone paid me to. “Michael, Theo, Clément, Franklin,” My eyes moved at rapid speed as I saw at least 80 kids in this schoolhouse, which was bigger than I thought it would be. “We all kind of look the same,” Catherine added, and I took that into account. I grazed everyone, and a sea of ebony met my eyes. Black, black, black, black, sandy brown, black, black. Wait… My eyes trailed back to the spot of uncertain, and my eyes met the most beautiful shade of brown I have ever seen. It was like when I visited Biarritz Beach for my 14th birthday, but softer to the touch. At least, I think so. He was turned around, but facing a mirror on the far wall so I could see his face.
He’s… wow. Just, wow. I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. Yet that boy isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to me, I am head over heels in love with him. Sweet Jesus. “Who’s that boy?” I elbowed Catherine out of her name-trance and she focused on my gaze. “Oh,” her voice softened. “That’s James.”
*End of Flashback*
The tears. Overwhelming me as I fled to my room, not caring that James, I mean Liam, might step into it at any time. James. Liam. Whoever he is, he’s just here to haunt me. Remind me about the hell I’ve been through for 140 years.
That’s right, 140 years.
I flung the door open, even though I didn’t need to, and hovered over the dusty bed someone once occupied. I cried, and cried, and cried, just like every single day for 140 years. 51135 days. My ghostly tears disappeared like vapor, only making me cry more when I remember what state I’m in. I thought of all the words swirling in my head, everything that’s gone on in my life, my prolonged, depressing life. I imagined a melody in my head, and I hummed a few verses before I started singing, tears still drippig down my face.
You're never gonna love me, so what's the use?
What's the point in playing a game you're gonna lose?
My voice trembled, but I sang on. When It gets too painful, I sing. Most girls cut, I’ve heard, but, being a ghost, I cannot. I’m so glad ghosts can’t self-harm. Otherwise, I’d be screwed over.
What's the point in saying you love me like a friend?
What's the point in saying it's never gonna end?
You're too proud to say that you've made a mistake
You're a coward to the end
I don't wanna admit that we're not gonna fit
No, I'm not the type that you like
Why don't we just pretend?
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
I can't let you go, can't let you go oh
I just want it to be perfect
To believe it's all been worth the fight
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
You only ever touch me in the dark
Only if we're drinking can you see my spark
And only in the evening could you give yourself to me
Cause the night is your woman, and she'll set you free
You're too proud to say that you've made a mistake
You're a coward to the end
I don't wanna admit that we're not gonna fit
No, I'm not the type that you like
Why don't we just pretend?
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
I can't let you go, can't let you go oh
I just want it to be perfect
To believe it's all been worth the fight
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh
I can't let you go, can't let you go oh
I just want it to be perfect
To believe it's all been worth the fight
Lies, don't wanna know, don't wanna know oh...
My voice cracked as I finished, having the tears replace the song as I slumped in defeat.
“Holy shit.” I heard a familiar voice, and I whipped around to see Liam, I mean James, or whoever, standing in the doorway like he had seen a ghost, ever though he hadn’t (I was still invisible). He had just heard one. “Mom!” he stumbled out of the room, and the crying started yet again as I paced, well, floated, around the room, then going to sit back o. The only times people had heard me was when I was scaring the shit out of them. Not when I was singing my eternal feelings out in a heart-breaking ballad.
“Mom, I’m not joking!” Liam came back into the room, sitting down on the bed literally 5 inches away from me, sending u a cloud of dust. He even sounds like James, I thought miserably. “She was fucking amazing,” He muttered, looking down at his folded hands and getting up, walking out of our room.
Our room. Our house. He’s just like every other housemate I’ve ever had. He’s not James, Annabelle. But he looks like James, my conscious reminded me. He talks like James, he acts like James. Maybe he could break your curse. “Shut up!” I screamed, hearing something break downstairs and a “I told you so!” Issued from Liam.
“I’m never getting out of her. I'm cursed. No one would love a ghost.”
My ever so wimpy self issued more tears to return, and I croaked out the first verse of the song I just sang.
It describes my life. I mean, I gave up a long time ago. Liam is not James; I will live in eternity with no one.
Nothing will change, Annabelle.
Never.
Notes
Wow! Ok! That was the first chapter!!!!!!!!!!!! (long I know :)
So............. What'd you think? Should I continue?? (I'm still not sure I I should)
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@lukeypukeyisbae
Not that I don't love you lol...........The fandom sticks together!
OMG I probably sounded like a complete idiot.....^^^^
6/29/15