I haven’t been the same since she left us. I used to tell my father that I could feel her in the room, and he would tell me that it was my mind trying to comfort my grief. He’d remind me that she was no longer here, and somehow that hurt more. I was desperate for one last hug from her, one last inspirational pep talk, or a singing session in our kitchen.
My father was desperate to help me process the loss. He saw me falling into a depression at the void my mother left in my chest. I stopped willingly leaving my bed for school. I stopped playing music on the record player my mother gifted me. I stopped functioning. I stoppedliving.
It was scaring him. I thought he was scared to lose me after losing his wife, but now I don’t know if he even really cared to lose me or lose control. He sought counseling and endless support groups until he was led to the church. He started bringing me to one wherehefound closure and the community he desperately craved. Me on the other hand? Ifound myself fearing the unknown and the weight of my sins constantly in that building. Sins of lying, envy, and love. I remember crying after sermons, but not tears of joy. They were tears of grief, self-hatred, and desperation. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I still actively participated in the youth group to appease my father, even if it broke my spirit.
I had come out to my father shortly after my mother passed away, feeling regret so deeply for not sharing an important piece of myself with her when she was around. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to share a huge piece of myself with him as well. Maybe this would bring us closer. Maybe this would show him why I felt uncomfortable with myself. Trying to consistently portray myself in an image that wasn’t me was becoming harder and harder. Maybe this massive piece of who I am would show my father why I was hurting even more from the environment he was bringing us to. Why this environment wasdestroyingme. The mask I was wearing to blend in with everyone else was starting to suffocate me. I was trying so hard to wear the right clothes to avoid the wrong questions. I even went as far as wearing a crucifix pin on my sweater. Everything about my appearance was a representation of the Catholic daughter my father created, but hidden inside was a girl clawing at the cage to express her passions outside of music. Music gave me the freedom to feel true to myself, but I wanted to feel like I did on the inside, on the outside. I never had the opportunity to explore it. The more the leash pulled, the more I wanted to release the clip.
Unfortunately, for me, sharing this truth with my father in the hope of establishing a better relationship and uncloaking the shadows of who I truly am remains a decision I regret. He still can not wrap his mind around what he calls my “phase”. He continues to think my preference in women is a choice, a ‘sin’ that I needed to conquer. The church would constantly preach that this sin was directly branded on my soul by Satan himself, and I needed to overcome it. Everyone fights their own battles, whether it is addiction or dishonesty. My battle is with my own identity.
My father shared my truth with the church without asking. It suddenly becameeveryone’shyper-fixation. Forget all sins separating us from God. Being a homosexual was the most jarring in their eyes, one that they were adamant about helping me work through. I was consistently encouraged that it was a sin I could overcome through time and dedication to His word. They brought speakers to the church about abstinence if I couldn’t control my preference, to those who tried to cleanse it away in prayer circles. Members of the church would ostracize me rather than love me. Going as far as to corner me in rooms full of adult males, rebukingme. Fuck rebuking the demon, they would say my name. They blamedme.
They emphasized that Hell was made for the demons, not a place they ruled. No, that was for Satan himself. The demons were here on earth and could torment you physically, mentally, spiritually, you name it. The people in the church went so far as to say a demon was controlling my sexuality or maybe even a part of me. They would cascade their own personal manipulations of His word to shame me for who I was in their eyes. No matter how many sermons I sat through, I realized it was one sin I would never be able to quell. The fear was there, but no fear could change a single thing. It simply is who I am. Am I still made in God’s image? Or has my sin changed my reflection to something so much more impure?
I am a living, breathing sinner in their eyes, and no matter how hard I tried to shove it away, I couldn’t rid myself of the truth. The idea of kissing boys with chapped lips and scruffy chins wasn’t something I could ever reconcile with their supposed belief. No threat of eternal damnation in Hell’s flames or endless torment from demons could change the desire for lips that are pillowy soft and skin as smooth as silk. I feared Hell, and demons, and a chapel full of eyes that knew my secret. But nothing could change what I felt or who I was.
I still remember how some of the nightmares were so horrifying that I would beg my father to stay in my room with me. The demons in myroom feltreal.Of course, he wouldn’t stay. He would just tell me to pray.
I’d like to blame the fear on how often these demons were used against me to convert the sin that plagued my mind. My father even tried medication for schizophrenia due to my frantic outbursts until we finally found a psychologist who told him it was PTSD from the death of my mother. But, behind closed doors, she’d sympathize with me for the trauma I consistently received from my father and the church. Their techniques to heal mebrokeme.
Middle school became high school, high school became college. It was a conversation my father and I haven’t had in many years—one he assumes I have conquered through my lack of honesty. But I think, deep down, he knows that it is a battle I will never win, and that our relationship will always remain bruised.
I bring my focus back to the woman downstairs, shaking the grief out of my head. Maybe my imagination was playing tricks on me, or maybe I was hallucinating again from the trauma. It wouldn’t be that far-fetched that the excitement and fear of seeing a potential ghost from the stories I’ve overheard projected the image down in that basement. Hell, I thought there were demons in my bedroom growing up. Maybe it’s just an overactive imagination. Nonetheless, I swear I saw a beautiful red-headed woman frowning at me down there, and I can’t get the image of her out of my mind.
I shift on my hips to lean further into my chair when I hear a soft crinkle and remember the picture in my back pocket. I lift my hips and grab it, holding my breath as I flip it over. My heart races as I recognize the woman in the photo as the woman I swear I saw downstairs. It’s a black and white photo of her side profile. She is holding a book up as she stands next to a large weeping willow. Her long curly hair flows down her back as a scarf wraps around her neck. She is wearing a peacoat that cinches her waist, creating a beautiful hourglass figure. She has a soft smile as she reads, her lips appearingdarker, making me wonder if she’s wearing the same red lipstick she was wearing downstairs. She’sbreathtaking.
Something about seeing her in this photograph shakes my core. The woman I thought I saw exists… or perhaps existed at some point. I feel drawn to her, a part of me craving to know more about her. I flip the photograph over as my heart stops abruptly. There’s a name.
Mildred Jones 1921
I place the photo on the table and kick my feet up on the chair across from me. I swallow hard. Shewasreal. Sheisreal. I have a feeling that I didn’t just imagine seeing her earlier. I had to have seen her. That must have been an apparition… right?
A million questions rush through my mind as I stare at the picture of the mystery woman. Is this really her? Is Mildred her name? Is she even a ghost? Is she trapped? Did Priest Brown see her? Is he aware? Surely he is. I need to go back down there and see if I’m hallucinating or if this is just a coincidence. I didn’t see him notice anything in that room, but maybe he’s used to the ghosts that haunt these halls if that’s what she truly was.
I run my fingers through my hair and grip it slightly as the excitement of the unknown settles into me. I can’t believe this might be reality. I grin as I suddenly find myself feeling more alive and eager for the future. I have something to look forward to. I can’t explain the sudden rush of joy and happiness as it courses through my veins, but I’m eager nonetheless to look for her. It feels like something clicked inside me when I locked eyes with that woman.What if you imagined it?The thought races across my mind faster than I have the chance to halt its tracks. It sticks like glue in my brain as I start to second-guess it. I start to frown, recognizing that my mind is preparing for the worst after feeling a moment of happiness. I just want my mind to turn off sometimes. I’m so used to things not going how I hope that it’s become instinctive toprepare for the worst. The prospect of Mildred, though? The weight of the thought floats away.
I might not be where I wanted to be this year, but part of me remains grateful I am here. Regardless of the truth, it’s an adventure that draws me in with a heavy sense of purpose.
I pull out my phone and look at my schedule, finding that it was my only class for the day. I settle into the chair and decide to catch up on my homework for the week and bury my nose in my books. Or rather attempt to, my thoughts consistently going back to the auburn locks cascading down her shoulders. The library will close soon, and then I can explore more of the forbidden parts of this campus in hopes of crossing her path.
Chapter 4
Grace
September 2nd
Iwatch the lights start to dim in the library. The staff begins pacing through the rows of books, checking to see if everyone has filed out for the evening to lock up.
Before the library began to close, I climbed out of the chair and hid in a corner behind a trash barrel to avoid being spotted. I want to explore the basement levels of this building next, but I know asking outright would be met with a harsh, “No.”
I crouch deeper into the shadows as I drag the trash barrel tighter against my side. I curl over my knees as I hold my breath. At least it’s empty and doesn’t smell. I hear soft clicks of heels approaching, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping I’m overlooked. Fear prickles over me at the thought of getting caught in this position. That would certainly lead me straight into Priest Brown’s office, and my final mark based on the warning he gave me earlier.
The clicks close in on me, and when the sound halts, my body tenses tightly. My lungs begin to burn from how long I’ve been holding my breath. Right when I think I’m about to let out a loud exhale, the sound of clicking heels resumes as they leave my corner.
I let the air out through my mouth slowly, releasing the tension in my muscles. The burn lingers in my lungs for a few moments longer while I sit still with my head on my knees.
It feels like forever until the final click of a switch sends the library cascading into darkness, except for the soft hue of the lamps on the tables in the center. But, back here, the darkness is so thick I can hardly see the shape of my hand.
I hold still for a few more minutes to ensure I’m truly alone, then I push the barrel away slowly and cringe as it scrapes against the floor. I stand up and shake my legs out as the blood rushes back to them. I limp to the table, attempting to stretch them out against the pain, and pull the straps on my backpack tighter over my shoulders.
