A Phantom To Lead You [SOLO]

[caleb andrew winston]

You came back to Reading yesterday. Your hometown. It’s been two years. Two years since you said goodbye to everything you knew, to go to a place that is anomalous, that shouldn’t exist. Some know what happened to you at the start of those two years. Even more know what happened before the events of two years ago were even fathomable to your little brain. When you were much, much younger. Back then, your mind was so open, yet still so closed.

Your first memory is of him. How his strong hands wrapped carefully around you made you certain that you absolutely were not going to fall, as he lifted you up and placed you on his shoulders. You can see it now, in your mind’s eye. Everything was so far down! You were so tall! It was almost as if you would tumble down, down, down if you even dared to move! But, no. No. That simply wouldn’t do. He held you tightly, firmly by the ankles as you sat on his shoulders. And you were certain, as you reached up to touch the stars above you, that he would never, ever, ever let you go.

You can still remember everything about him. You don’t know if your mind has glorified all of his existence, because in your eyes, he was the greatest man who ever lived. But you’re still, to this very day, one hundred percent certain that you can remember every single detail about him that you loved so dearly. The creases around his eyes as he smiled at you, his mirthful laughter, the little song he would sing to your mother – you are convinced that you can remember it all. You are confident that, if ever asked, you could paint a picture of him. Hum the same little song in your mother’s ear, even though your voice is different.

You've always been told that you have his laugh.

You can still recall the first time you ever set foot inside the little shop, your tiny toddler feet making small indents in the fluffy carpet as you ran along, him laughing and running behind you. He could overtake you. He could overtake you so easily. But he never did. Because you were Caleb. You were unbeatable. You were fast. You were strong. You were you, and to both you and him, that was enough. It always had been, no matter how unsure you are of that now. You can’t deny it, no matter how hard you might try.

You can recollect the first time you picked up a paintbrush. It was in that very shop, with his guidance, that you put your fingers in the right position and made your first mark on the world. It was only an A4 sheet of paper, and the red line was crude, obviously made by the hand of someone too young to understand how much joy something like that would bring them in later life. But, to you, it felt like you were doing so much more than just painting a mere line. Even though you didn’t really understand why you felt that way at the time, now you’re well aware. You were creating evidence. Evidence that you were here. That you ever existed. That you were a real person.

You can remember the very night that it all changed. But I won’t go too much into that one. You remember that one well enough. In fact, the memory shoots through your mind as you walk through the streets, making you stop dead in your tracks, pressing a hand to your head with a shaky breath. Everything. The bang. The sirens. Everything’s there, it’s there, it’s flooding back.

You sometimes wonder why you never got over it. You wonder why it still hurts you, still makes you feel a pang, to this very day. He left years ago. He left you, without even a warning. No wonder you were angry at him at first, when you were little and didn’t understand. But then you grew up. You knew it wasn’t really his fault. Not really really. But, in your view, a common misconception about the feeling of bereavement is that you get over it. But you didn’t. If that was true, surely you would have dealt with it a long time ago!

Truth is that you still hurt beyond repair. You still cry looking at pictures of the three of you. You still read the newspaper clippings that described the tragedy. You still feel it all, don’t you? You’ve just pushed it all to a deep, dark corner of your mind. Everything goes there. Everything that threatens your happiness is bottled, isn’t it? That’s not healthy, and you know it. And, yet, you don’t do anything about it. You just keep doing it. You’re scared that it’ll hurt everyone else, like you were hurt all those years ago.

You manage to steady yourself with a quivering breath, and look up from your hands. You catch sight of yourself in a shop window. You’ve changed. You’ve changed so much, Caleb. You’re much taller. You’re older. You’re not a child anymore, as the glass reflects. You can do this.

You straighten up, checking the bag on your back, and take a few steps further.

You wonder how your mother would react if she knew that you were back in Reading, that you’d taken a train. You wonder if you’ve frightened her by not telling her that you were going. And, although you feel a twinge of guilt, you’re not really sorry for not saying anything. She would have wanted to come. And this is something that you need to do by yourself. You considered telling Joseph, telling Jason, telling anyone. But you couldn’t summon the words. You didn’t want anyone to know where you were. You wanted to be completely alone, just for a couple of days. You needed to be.

The anniversaries were always important to you, of course they were. The five year mark, the ten year mark – both, and others, passed in a blur of melancholy and tear stained pillows at night. But there’s something about the twelfth year. Twelve was his lucky number. And, for some reason, you don’t think he’d want you to spend this anniversary that way. No, this is the lucky year. He’d be saying it now, if he were with you. You want to make this one special. And you haven’t visited him in a while. He’s probably forgotten what you look like.

You make it to the cemetery, the bag knocking against your back with every step. There’s an assortment of mourners. But one, one in particular, stands out to you. It’s a little girl. She’s knelt next to a grave, a single daisy in her hand, placing in in front of the headstone. It’s a tiny offering, slightly battered. But that doesn’t matter. Even though it isn’t much, it’s what she could give, and that’s what’s important. You can’t help but half smile at her gesture. Why? Because she reminds you a bit of yourself.

It takes you a while to remember where his grave is, even though you can remember almost everything else about him. Even when it does come into view, you don’t know whether you should just bolt. Everything is coming back up faster than you can handle it. You don’t know if you can do this.

But you need to do this.

“Hello, dad,” you whisper as you sit down, cross-legged, next to the pile of earth that covers him. You’ve been rehearsing this for months, thinking about it for a while. You even wrote it down somewhere, just so you would know what to say and not end up like you are right now. You should know what to say, but words completely fail you. You just sit, dead silent, staring at the engraving on the headstone.

R.I.P. Dominic Miles Winston
11th January 1971 - 26th June 2001
Loving Husband and Father
We love you, mate. Sleep tight.

You were proud of the painting. It was the first one you did since moving away from Reading. Your first serious one. The first one you really put effort into, now that you had the supplies to do so. You spent hours on it, perfecting each brushstroke, dabbing at mistakes with a Kleenex. It took such a long time, such a long time. But it was worth it. It was enough for you. You never had a use for the painting, nor the praise that your family gave you for it. It just stayed in your dorm, hung dejectedly on a wall.

Until today.

You take it out of your bag, and look down at it, inspecting each mark. Suddenly, a wave of anxiety twists in your chest. In the situation that you’re in, it’s easily as measly and inadequate as the little girl’s daisy was, maybe even more so. He was the biggest part of the first five years of your life, and you repay him with one picture. One picture. To you, that isn’t enough. One million pictures wouldn’t be. A freaking Monet wouldn’t be enough to pay for what he did for you, in your eyes. But this is all you have with you. Surely… surely it’ll be okay?

“So, uh, hey,” you say properly, forcing a smile and pushing your hair out of your eyes. “I, uh. I got you something. I think.” You stare at the picture for a long moment, before slowly leaning it up against the headstone. His face smiles back at you, every streak of paint as accurately placed as you could make it. A child stands next to him, wild hair, and brown eyes. You. It’s something that a five year old would paint, honestly, but more realistic. “I know it’s a bit childish,” you explain. “But I just… I just thought that it might be nice. Y’know. Show you that I haven’t changed much.”

You half smile. Yes, you’re still a child. Just in that moment, you’re a child.

And that’s how you spend the rest of the day. You just talk with him, talk at him, talk to him. It’s all rather one sided, and you get a few funny glances, but you’re beyond caring. You haven’t done this for too long. It almost feels like you’re catching up with an old friend. Which is exactly what you’d hoped it would feel like. It’s one of the best feelings you’ve had for a while, up with a few other things that have happened in the past couple of weeks.

And just like that, you have to go. You have people that are worrying about you; you have places that you need to go. As much as you want to, you can’t stay here. So you get up, and say the one thing that you’ve wanted to say since you were five years old. You never got the opportunity, until now. You’re not even sure if he can hear you. But it’s worth a shot.

“Goodbye, Dad. See you soon. Maybe.”

You pick up your bag, and leave, your steps rustling through the grass. You don’t know what it is, but there’s something you feel. It makes you feel almost happy, like you’re walking on air. You shouldn’t feel that way, not in a cemetery. But you do, and it’s nearly disconcerting. You’re not sorry for it, though. It’s pleasant, warming, exhilarating. It might ebb, it might fade. But you feel it, just for a moment. It takes you a while. But, as you glance over your shoulder and see your painting, propped up against his headstone, you finally realise what it is.

Peace.

You feel true peace.

Just for a moment.

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Outfit: Clicky!
Tagged: Juuust me
Notes: gah I've been wanting to write something like this so much
Lyrics: The Reckless and The Brave by All Time Low