By Aarika Das Panda (Y12)
The first sound when I woke
up at three were those screams. That sound will
never leave me, screams of pain, and
begging, and praying. I couldn’t be there, so I made
sure the younger ones could
sleep. Wasn’t there at the funeral,
you were too far away. At first imagined you
hanging now, I can see you writhing in pain
as everything burst and the blood stopped pumping,
all alone. At first, to our shock and horror, they told
us it was a suicide then once the doctors arrived
it was a heart attack. Do I still want to
call that place home? With our faces on the
walls, and my scribbles on the drawers, and
the night sky on the ceiling. Tried to act
like nothing happened, it worked for
less than a day. So I cried every night.
Until I stopped sleeping alone
and tried to stop thinking. Stop. My
brain and my thoughts, but they never listen. Now
I use your old things. Clothes and art supplies. When
I first got them, they smelt like you
now they’ve adapted to the scent of my room, especially when
I try to remember every detail of you. My mother
gave me a photo of you saying,
go paint it, immortalise her. That’s why
I still haven’t deleted your number
so I can look back at your
texts, and drawings, and voice messages. I
still think of you every night when
I remember what could’ve been. Who I could be
with your support. Now all I do: is sit
and paint with your ghost
as you whisper what colours, media, paper,
subject to reproduce. And my parents wonder, wow
when did your art get so good, it really does
look like her.
EMULATION OF “to touch a ghost” BY DARIUS ATEFAT-PECKHAM