The Ghosts of Spaces Occupied

Betsy

[Written for Wattpad Wednesday on June 18, 2014. My semi-failed attempt at incorporating dialogues into a story.

Thanks to @BobJan70 for creating an awesome cover for this story, which you can see in the Media section!]

I draw up my chair to face the window. The view has become familiar over two decades of living here. Residential street running northeast to southwest, laying parallel to rusty train tracks. To the east, Mr. Willow the tree bent to its knees, unable to bear its age.

I sit down, look out the window in waiting. It does not take long for my reflection to disappear, and for the familiar red-haired figure to take its place.

Betsy emerges in her usual manner – haphazardly and too-much-at-once. Her red hair and daisy-printed dress simultaneously overflowing. I could see her trademark trace of malice twinkling in her eyes, despite her translucent reflection. There is no denying that she and I look alike, but secretly I wish I could look that good, in a couple of decades’ time.

I nod and smile. She collects her hair while I collect my thoughts.

“Moving going well?” Betsy jumps straight in as usual.

“Going alright.” I signal at the cardboard boxes against the walls. “Too much childhood to be packing into a couple of boxes.”

Betsy nods and plants a cigarette into her receiving lips. Her voice remains sarcastically flat. “All because you are a hoarder. Such an odd child from the start. When you want something you go all out. Stuffed unicorns as a kid, checkered blankets in elementary school. What was it in high school?”

“Tea packs.”

“Yeah, tea packs.” She snorts. “You’re bringing it all with you?”

“Yeah.”

She chuckles dryly and lowers her gaze, expertly tapping the ashes off her cigarette with her index finger. I catch her eyeing the multiple silver bands I have on my left ring finger. I bought them all myself. She knows I’ve found a new thing to collect.

 “You know you shouldn’t do this.”

There she goes. I was expecting this topic. My face does not hide my resignation.

“Betsy, I’m ready. We are ready.” I speak with as much conviction as I could muster. “This is what we want.”

She peers at me through side-turned eyes and roars. “Ha. You speak of one thing but your face tells of something else, child.”

“No. You don’t understand how I feel. I am ready for the next step. I’ve been ready and was waiting for him to ask.”

“He will pop the question, no doubt. My guess? Six months from now, after moving in. But you know as well as I that that’s not the problem.”

A train chugs laboriously through the tracks in view. I listen thoughtfully to its coughs and sighs as it disappears into the distance. 

“You’re on that train, girl. You think you are on the right track. But there are no stops.”

I consider the weight of her sentence. Betsy is not one to mince words; she will make it damned well known what she thinks. But this time she is holding back. Be it age, wisdom or my impending departure that’s made her speak in cryptic.

“We will make it work.”

“Whatever you say.” Resignation must be infectious.

“I’ll be OK, Betsy. This is what I want.”

She studies me for a while, with a pensively penetrating stare. "Be careful of your life choices, child. You won't know if you're going to the stars or to No Man's Land, until you get there."

As she fades away, I consider bidding her proper good-bye. Despite her nagging attitude, she is a piece of my comfort growing up. Saying our farewells brings me separation anxiety.

But somehow I know that we will see each other again. She will continue to ride with me, on that blind train to No Man’s Land.