Was it something that she saw, was it something that she heard, was it a feeling or was it just an imagination coupled with the past that haunted her? Her eyes wide open, and there was that horror written all over her face. Her whole self-was shaking uncontrollably. But what perhaps gripped the silence of the whole place was her voice, the manner. It was a sharp piercing wail. It was as though she was in an infinite excruciating anguish.
Anabel was a friendly lady always dressed in pastel genteel colours. Her eyes were a store, flashing out an occasional message that when you see you will remember. She was beautiful. Pretty in her own way, with long blonde hair and a face that almost assumed a round shape at birth except that it wasn’t. I used to believe all people were created in the image and likeness of God. Then she was, which sparked the debate of who indeed was really created in His image. The kind that Pro-Anabel would sweep anytime based on existential evidence. If something by its very definition cannot be seen can it be said to exist? Well, she existed.
She was like the lily of the valley. Sweetly scented and popular for it’s delicate, daintily appearance and it’s bell-shaped blooms. And poisonous in the sense that she was the kind, everyone would love to shoot the breeze, with a chilled larger on the table and the skinned carcass of an unfortunate bull sizzling on a fire in the background.
He wanted to believe in ghost when she told him stories. He liked the belief in ghost, but then he didn’t believe. He had never met one. She was only 10 when apparitions of the dead appeared to her in masterpieces as Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Páramo and Dante’s Divine Comedy. She met her real “ghost” masquerading as a machete-wielding human in the dark. Perhaps a different kind of ghost but she received a mark for their divine encounter. And so she believed in shadows lurking, and faces that appeared and disappeared unannounced. Deeply, she had that sense of roaring in her ears and voices so close and faces, so black and frightening, emerging from the darkness, but she just didn’t know. She believed in seeing things that others didn’t. A belief that she never told for she was scared of its implications. Afraid that it was just her imagination playing her senses of fear. She wasn’t really sure.
So much had changed in her, so much had remained the same when she turned 20. Underneath her well-crafted body was a tormented soul. A heart that was trapped. She was like an ant rolling down the leaf in the water and when it feels the water it turns back and realises it’s going nowhere. The past is the past some say, but to her, it was something, a reminder of what could go wrong. And she was always afraid.
Out in the night camping and in between the hazy din of the drunken drumbeats in his head, he took to their tent. But bored that he couldn’t sleep, he peeked from under his tent through an unzipped opening and lo and behold, the stars beckon, a beautiful site. There was that irresistible urge to poke the camping fire under such a forget me not starry sky. And dance around the fire, trading jokes and sometimes insults that would only go unpunished in such circumstances. Insults that if at all were to be punished, the whole thing would be forgotten the next morning.
He was hitting the back of his bottle clattering. A bottle he was slowly draining, singing a weird song when he heard her scream. Completely confused at first, he thought perhaps, he had had enough. And he dropped his bottle, but then it grew louder and louder. His friends heard it too and it’s then that he realised, Anabel was in distress.
Even in his arms, she couldn’t stop trembling. She didn’t say what it was. She could not explain it either. And if it was what she heard or saw, she just had no description. But in her eyes, was that desperate look, terrified that something was out to get her. No one saw anything. And if there was, it was something no one else had the eyes to see. It’s not like she had too much to drink. In fact, she didn’t drink at all, drinking was not her thing. To be exact, she was a good girl. But she was afraid, perhaps of what she didn’t know. A discussion would be, was it the past that no one can turn back the hand of time to change that had resurfaced. Another would be, was it just fear that had invaded and compromised her mind in every way imaginable. With the most magnificent instruments of observation and analysis at my disposal. It will be appreciated if I condense so essential and so new an insight into the two discussions. In that way I may facilitate comprehension; in that way, I do realise I might provoke contradiction. With the highest respect, I exclude myself from giving my insight. Suffice to say, I’m afraid that it might not be the most precise.