Ghosts of the past

A cloud of dry wind gathers around me. My conflicted thoughts were as tangled as the humid-free balls of shrivelled hay that lolled around lazily. The sun could be relentless in these parts of the country. Myra would have probably-no. I cannot go to that dark place anymore. The place where her thoughts haunt my reality and my dreams. What happened is done and over with. Pain is not to be mulled over.

But that's the problem isn't it? Why do we never allow ourselves the freedom to mourn? No doubt it's a consuming process but just because we are "supposed" to show a mighty bravado, we don't let ourselves relive something bad. It's sad even. We say we are living in a modern democratic world but we don't give ourselves the pleasure to experience a mere feeling. Pain. It's a taboo. On multiple incidences in the past so many years I have been told "to forget it", "to think about better places", "to think about brighter things" by therapists I have lost count of. Never for once have I been allowed the opportunity to open up. And it's four years now, and I am still as broken and tattered as I was so many years ago.

I am pulled out of my pensive mood when a shadow passes me. Sigh. I have to get going and not be stuck up with my daunting thoughts or like one of those many days, I will waste my whole time venturing into the miserable part of my mind that devoids me of my sanity.

The day goes well and by the time I am home I am exhausted. A strange feeling was bothering me, like something was off, but I have learnt in more ways than one that dwelling over negative things leaves myself with nothing but a troubling mind. And that's the sad thing. Even though the norm is clearly messed up, I tend to run by the society's rules. Call me a hypocrite if you may,but I am not going to suddenly face my demons just because I believe that is what I SHOULD be doing, because I am too much of a pansy to go against the flow. Myra is a fleeting thought,a memory that is always moving in a constant momentum, juxtaposing my thought process.

A white manila envelope lies on my coffee table. Strange. I don't remember seeing it earlier in the day. I turn it around to face the demonic name that I try to avoid at all times. Myra.

My heart thumps louder than ever, my fingers tingling in the reminiscence of the way her dark brown waves ran through them. The Pandora box is now opened. The image of her small smile and the tiny beauty spot above her lip knocking the wind out of me. Why? Why would fate want to be so cruel with me? A shuffling sound resounds in the four white walls of my tiny house. Someone was here. My hands are blanketed with goosebumps, and when rationality finals comes to me a second too late, I hunt for the intruder that has rudely entered my den. But the only thing left is an all too familiar residual warmth, which if nothing, chills me to my bones.

The following week is spent in an internal battle of whether or not I should open the envelope. My curious mind tells me to open it, but my heart squeezes at the thought of re-opening a chapter of my life I was done with. I was already on edge and the fact that some random doofus managed to get into my house without my consent might have something to do with that. In the whole of last week I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched but paranoia may have gotten the best of me.

When I finally get back home, with a resolved mind of shredding the envelope to pieces, an eerie chill runs down my spine. I can see someone standing there, in the dark. Just standing and looking at me. Like a hunter watching it's prey. There is a familiar mop of curls on the person's head and----oh. It can't be!
"Myra?"

I let the question disperse in the suddenly thick hair of my house. Why? Why after so many years? There is no reply. The more I see, the clearer the edges are to me. It is her. Her loud hips and dark hair are the only things I am certain of. The moonlight bounces off her forehead, a hint of her facial structures visible, and I have never been more sure of anything. It is her. But Myra.. Myra was such a jolly person. She would laugh and be goofy. She wouldn't be standing in the darkness in MY house, tearing open a box of secrets I worked for years to avoid. The wounds split open, a searing pain emancipating in the tense atmosphere. She makes no move. Her face is hidden in a veil of secretive darkness, like it always was. She is far too calm for the Myra I knew. She looks so out of place in my house, especially when I had made it my mission to scrub of any evidence of her presence ever in my life.

I know better than to tread towards her. If at all I know anything about the great Myra Avena that made my life a living hell, it is that she is skilled at running. I chose my words carefully.
 "Myra is that you? What are you doing here?"

 I am answered with a deafening silence. This is not Myra. My Myra couldn't stay two seconds without talking. I can see no facial expressions but I expect sympathy, a hint of pain, or love even if I may allow my wandering mind to dream. I rub my eyes to see if I am hallucinating with all the working my brain has to do, but she is still there. The warmth of her body dissolving into a chill that is giving me goosebumps. I look down to the floor, the intensity of her undivided attention on me disrupting my thoughts. And almost as silently as she came, she was gone. My feet stay rooted to the cream tiles, my eyes doing all the searching only to find nothingness. It was as if this did not even happen. The proof that she was even there was nowhere to be found, but her sweet smell spread in my room, depositing in my veins till betrayal hit me so hard. There were so many unanswered questions, so many unsaid confessions, but she left me to my misery again; letting my inquisitive mind travel places I didn't want, to find answers. And although it took so many years to forget her, Myra's shadow even, brought back everything I had bottled up and let it ruthlessly lay exposed in the muted moonlight.

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has been a few months since the incident and I struggle with my nightmares. I have been looking everywhere and nowhere for something, for anything to come up. The envelope too disappeared with Myra and it doesn't take a genius to figure out she took it. Why was it sent to me in the first place? I have been all over the place regarding this and like before, I come back with empty hands. My phone rings and I almost ignore my mother's call as it says on the screen, since we rarely talk, but I welcome the distraction.
"Hello Aiden! How have you been?"

We talk about nonessential things and I yearn to ask something about the woman who makes sleep difficult for me.
"Mother...have you heard from Myra?"

After a minute of silence I am met with what I can only make out as my mother's crying.
"Oh Aiden!"

My heart thumps and promises to leap out of my chest. What is happening? We had promised to never talk about Myra after what happened four years ago but I am thrown aback by how easily she is opening this jar of ugly mistakes made in the past. I tune in back to the conversation, missing what she said.
"Aiden did you forget? We went together to her funeral a year ago."