Updated: Sep 14, 2020
a short story full of longing, hope, and fucking up.
This must be my punishment. A life of debauchery has led to this lonely existence. My kingdom for some light banter. I even crave tedious small talk now.
Just a conversation with you would be sex to me.
You always pass me by without a glance in my direction. Going about your daily routine. I now only exist to watch - a sick cuckold, holding out for a crumb of attention. Sometimes you look right at me and I feel just pathetic.
You recently got a Ouija board for a gift. I guess this means you're lonely too. I guess and I hope.
I've seen you eyeing it. You want me, don't you? Want to know who's been moving your things. Headphones, phone chargers... I only want you to notice me. It's so hard to move things. It requires all of my strength and attention but that is so hard to do when my mind is half-gone. Those poltergeist films were so inaccurate.
You place your two index fingers on the planchette, ever so delicately. What a predicament you are in. What a risky little game. You never fail to amuse me. Of course, it won't work. You know that. I know that. Those things are bullshit, but it's fun to believe sometimes, isn't it? You probably just need to tell your friend Nathan that you've had a play about with his gift to you. Nathan is just a friend, right?
You finally speak to me: "Is there anybody here?" I know you don't know who I am or that I'm here but my soul shakes anyway. I am being pulled towards your voice, your beautiful sing-song voice, your elegant hands, long fingers, long eyelashes, hands, voice, eye, eye, hand, v- it's all too much.
I breathe you into me.
A shiver runs along your spine.
Did I do that?
I focus all my attention, every last morsel of my wilting mind, and reach out towards the planchette. I try to move it but it's so hard to with the weight of your fingers - and something else. Your doubt. I need you to trust me. I didn't think this could work before but now something calls to me, telling me that you only need to trust me. I must do something now. Ignoring my niggling anxieties, I step over the barrier.
I say your name, strong and loud, I say it. "Daniel." As close as I can get to your left ear.
You recoil in horror, throwing the board across the room, smashing your glass of wine in the process. My soul aches. I've really fucked up now, haven't I?
About the author: J.V. Damaris is a singer songwriter in London. Check out her punk rock band here.
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