I once had a dream of a tall pale girl with raven hair, tilting one foot over a ledge and leaning to and fro. Her grey bony foot unclenching over the canopy as she stood; the earth below her crumbling, waiting, watching. 

She breathed and stood back, almost in disbelief of what she could have done and closed her eyes, lips pursed tightly.

I watched from the distance as she played this frivolous game weighing her limits as she rocked forth and back. Her quaint little body shook with every step as she danced along in a line with those same monotonous movements. Forward and back. Forward and back. Forward. Back. Forward.

Each step towards the cliff made my stomach churn, though I could do nothing but sit and watch her tease me. The way she pranced was almost majestic as if she were performing: ballerina like, with her pointed toes and the elegant bounce within each stride. 

Then she looked at me. Face blank, features blurred so softly that I could not distinguish her as an individual I knew but as a soul I was connected to. Seeing that I looked back, she smiled, raising her fidgety white hand, waving. My body was paralysed. I could only watch as my face twitched and the unbearing agony in my cheat tore.

She slipped. Her black hair raising in the midst of gravity as she fell into the arms of the canopy. The trees trembled so violently that it shook the ground beneath it. She succumbed into the cluster, and soon all that was left of her were the rustling of leaves and the cawing of grieving crows.

Her blood, now trickling through the hollow cracks on the trees, felt like it covered my hands.

And so, I would scream. Scream as if that girl was my own blood. Scream because I lost part of myself.

Then I would wake up and look out the window, watching the ocean meet the land, and wondering who that girl was and wishing to see her once more before realising that she is only a figment of my imagination. 

Though she isn’t particularly real, I knew her and she knew me. 

Is this it? I momentarily wished that my life meant so much more that I need not to yearn for a fake’s company. Was this all this world had to offer? A bland world of corruption and such wickedness?

I grieved. For the loss of the life I never had; the life I shall never live. I will spend the rest of my eternity being a lonely spirit, wandering through barren wastelands until I and everyone else around me will turn to dust. I shall live a life where I wake up daily and feel a tremendous amount of guilt each time I open my eyes, though I never know exactly why I believe myself to be condemned. 

I desperately tried to define the raven haired girl’s face in my mind before I surrendered to the real world yet again, but I just couldn’t for the life of me, no matter how much I pleaded to the infinite sky above.

Alas, Mammie would croak my name, and I twist my neck as she slithered through the door. I cowered at her ghostly face as she craned her long neck to perceive me through those slit eyes.

Wild Bill used to tell me stories of Mammie. Based on his long monologues of her, she used to be beautiful: a pearly white gaze bestowed onto a siren like beauty with an enchanted smile that drew all the blokes in. 

With such privileges, one would think that a woman of such power and charms would possess a nice desolate land with a humble, wealthy gentleman and create a family of their own, though she so ferociously built up much contempt of the conventional system of life that she took to embarking such intoxication.

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With that, young Mommee, at her peak of destruction and searching for a path of repentance, there came Holmes Q. Manahan. This peculiar fellow came from Mississipi River and had many assets inherited to his name. He set sail to the south bank of Glasglow Govan soonly after his suster perished, exempt from labour, and planned to return to his home after two months.

Manahan and she met in a drinking den and were bewitched with their oh so youthful appearances. With such interests, they took off together from the and eloped all the way to Maine, giving birth to a small girl: me.

But soon their wedding was proved to be illegitimate as his lawful wife from Mississippi found out about all his sinful doings and tracked poor Holmes down with his Muzzleloader before shooting his back twice, leaving him to drown in his own blood. Because of this incident, Mammie grew to be disconsolate once again and, unable to support herself and her child, sold the manor for cash and inhabited a small shack. There, she sold her body for extra money and began to drink more and more.

By now, she was no longer this beautiful seductress but now rather looked as if she were only a pile of fully functioning bones with shriveled up features and thin leathery skin. But as she continued to satisfy man’s sexual needs, she earned up enough savings to find a larger home at the coast of the shore. It was rickety and old, and one thunderstorm would blow it into the neverending blackness of the sea.

One would believe that a woman, hardworking to support her kid daughter and herself, would love her child considerably more than anyone else in the whole world. Although, her words were jaunting, and struck poor little me like a blade to my heart. No words of affection was ever told to me, nor any forms of physical touch. All there was to our relationship was that she were my Mammie and I her begotten, and all she did was set food on the table and teased me while I ate supper in silence. Every acknowledgement of my existence was of her mocking me, and wishing that I was unborn. She looks at me with such regret that I shiver as she leans to sneer at my repulsive face.

I hate that cowardly woman more than anything. I hate how she recoils when one mentions my name and how she distrusts me more than anyone. 

“You wicked child! What woman rises noon? You must be some witch.”

Her words pelted like hard, cold rocks. My eyes went adrift to the cold shore clashing against the large rocks and of the small boat rocking to the side of the dock. 

Such scene was hidden behind a grey overtone of mist and a wave of comfort absorbed my body as I imagined it take over me and the tension from my limbs floating away.

I wonder if there was a place in the world for me where I could be at rest and no one is ridiculing me. I wonder if there is someone who recognises my abilities of all my faults out of the thirty million in this world.

“Disrespectful child you are! Daydreaming whilst I am teaching you a lesson that ought to be taught. You’ve flown over the cuckoo’s nest, dear child, it isn’t so ladylike of you to just fantasise all the time. Perhaps Madame Nolie would have to see to you to guide yourself to perfection. Is this what we really have to come to, child?” “Yes Mommee.” To which I’d reply with a sickened gaze. 

So the widow would depart, leaving the child, I, to return to her thoughts. I must be cursed or some kind of sorceress hag. I am the most unwomanly girl to ever exist on this planet, and I shall do nothing to impress anyone. Not even my own self! Though in my head I make up such characters; characters who love me for me and admire my unique beauty. They are with me at all times: When I rise for breakfast, scrub the floors and even when I prepare for a bath. I am myself when am with them, and find comfort in their words and their conversations. They sing with me, dance with me, read to me, and give the wisest advice know to mankind. 

Mammie threatens to send me to the loony bin whenever she catches me, but she would never understand why I resorted to this dream. Even though they aren’t particularly real, they are in my head, and I feel their presence more than other people when they are physically surrounding me.

 One character I never saw much of was said raven haired girl, who died in her dreams. I know her like a sister, though we’ve never actually talked, even in my head. Whenever I try to remember her face, my thoughts would blur and my head would spin. That’s because she is real. In my dreams. As if she haunts my mind like a lost spirit. 

Something about her mystic fragrance just makes me know that she is out there. Somewhere in this world. Whether it be the pinnacle of a snowy mountain or a hut in the Phillipines.

But everytime I close my eyes I see her. Her peaceful figure toppling over the canopy, smiling at me. Waiting for me. Watching.