The ghost who dared to dream. Part 1

THE GHOST WHO CHOSE TO DREAM

Such a terribly long time passed before I became interested in recalling how it all happened. How I ended up in this place. At the very beginning, all I wanted was to run away, to escape to a tranquil place where I could, finally, be at peace.

For a while, my books were enough, I did not need it to be real. But one day, all of the sudden and with no warning, it was.

Part 1: Saint Agnese
On a cold morning in 1909, the Sun rose to find me at the gates of the St. Agnese Catholic Hospice on the slopes of the Alps, Italy. I grew up between the mildewed and sully walls of that picturesque place fighting for my survival since I was old enough to do so.

Nobody ever learnt anything about my mysterious origins, but growing up I understood that my life hadn’t been destined to be pleasing from the very start, aware that even if my parents lived —or, had they decided to keep me—, they couldn't have possibly prevented the social problems of my condition: my ashen skin was so pallid that it was almost translucent, my platinum blonde hair evoked the snow and my dull crimson eyes terrified the youngest children at the hospice.

My childhood was difficult, indeed, but not miserable; cruelty is hard to spot when you are rather estranged to gentleness.

Upon my arrival at the orphanage, the Mother Superior distinguished well that placing a monstrous infant in the same room with children used to fight with claws and fangs to survive wasn’t the best idea, so I was left on a rusty old cot in the remotest room, alone among other forgotten things. This room had once functioned as a nursery, but hadn't been used since 1891, when the orphanage stopped accepting babies. I was, in a sense, lucky.

I spent the first years of my life locked up there, breathing the humidity and gazing at the moonlight filtering through the small window on top of the high ceilings, like a haunting spectre refusing to leave his grave.

Ghost, phantom, spectre. That was the only name I ever heard and the only one I was known for.

Due to my condition, I was prevented from going out on daytime activities and no nun was willing to pay for the kind of clothes which would've allowed me to do so, nor to sacrifice a night's sleep to try and teach something to the poor lonesome ghost in the forgotten room, whose legend the older children used to frighten the younger ones.

Still, I learned to read on my own, leaning against the wall of my large and empty room to listen to the morning bible lectures and following them in mine. As well, I learned to speak French and English with old books from the library.

I became the legend of St. Agnese, the mythical demonic creature that the orphanage kept hidden in a cellar. The fact that my photosensitive skin did not allowed me to go out during the day did not help —the nuns would feed me passing a basket of left overs at night— and the peculiar colour of my eyes made the children run away terrified. Some of the most utterly religious sisters even muttered Latin prayers as they walked by my door.

To survive the madness of absolute seclusion, I became an expert in taking advantage of others wasting: unintentionally, I contributed to my own legend by slipping out of my room at night and check the classrooms to collect paper, pencils, books and coins forgotten by the nuns and the other children. Those who took their classes there every the morning, under the sunlight, while I closed my eyes to protect my lousy sight from the radiant sunshine, snuggling in the shadows so it wouldn't hurt my skin with its warmth. I couldn't remember ever having seen the light clearly, thus I could hardly imagine the sun rays dancing over the rotting wooden floor of my room, much less could I even try to evoke the heat.

I read many stories, I drew many of the places described in the most beautiful passages of my stolen books, I travelled as far as I could, but when the portals to other places were no longer enough, when I finished all the forgotten books, all the stories written in the stars, then I was forced to find another way to escape. And so, I created my own books, with my own stories and my own paintings. They became my most precious possessions, and to a certain point, the only things that were truly mine.

I imagined a world to go to when everything was unbearable. As a child I dreamed of being normal, of black hairs covering my head, of skin tanned under the sunlight, and hazel eyes with mossy greens and warm browns.

But, the unpleasant experiences with those who were supposed to be normal led me to picture a reality where all the people would be like me, some place where we spectres would empathize and succour each other, a place for delicate and similar creatures, like the China Country, described in The Wizard of Oz, where I would be just one more, blending in the masses, and perhaps, I could be the beautiful one there: I should be the most svelte, have the milkiest skin, the palest hair…

It was a sweet dream, but a limited one nonetheless. I knew that my eyes wouldn't be accepted even in hell, much less worshipped, not even by others ghosts like me, who, as I heard from a nun, had grey eyes, not red.

As well, on repeated occasions I saw the other children be cruel to each other, so I began to think of a completely different, new, world, one where there'd be no one but me, no one but the lonely ghost, a world where I could create anything I wanted.

I tried to give many shapes to this world, I drew many scenarios born from my mind and some taken from old stories, but none of the candidates made me feel that I was in my place, that I was home. Until the perfect one was conceived in a dream, the windy night of October 2, 1922: it was a sublime landscape, with pearl grey skies, surrounded by black sand dunes, where the wind whirled into a gale, but the sand hardly rose and only flew as necessary to fashion ephemeral figures in the air. The shapes of birds and cities, and I thought I saw a gracious and beautiful female figure for a second. Everything I thought of, took shape in shimmering black sand and then it materialized into something real. Before I knew it, I was creating castles, animals, toys and scenes from my favourite books.
What felt like hours later, I saw the feminine figure again, alive in dark soft sand, looking at me with a smile on her smooth features. Her hips and breasts were hardly pronounced, her face retained some childish plumpness, but she was beautiful. Just when I tried to materialize her into a real being, I woke up.

When I opened my eyes and assimilated that I was awake, I desperately tried to go back to sleep, immediately so I could meet that girl, but I could not. I got up and drew the place of the black sands in my book, as detailed as possible for even if it had a simple dream, I would try with all the power of my mind to go back.

From that night on, I spent my days sleeping and managed to tour my new world. I found palaces, cities and all the wonders that at some point had inhabited in my imagination, all the fantastic marvels that I could never find in the real world were there. But I never found the girl again, I even tried to create her out of my memories, but I was never able to.

My life in Saint Agnese did not vary much; I continued to wander at night like a spectre, and little by little I stopped dreaming about the black sands, despite how hard I tried to. As the years went by and fellow children grew up too, the jokes they played on me were getting worst and worst, almost unbearable, ranging from sliding dead animals down the crack of my door to even trying to open it. Until the day I finally turned sixteen years old and the orphanage could get rid of me without breaking any law or insulting their god.
At the beginning of a war, it was prioritizing to get rid of as many orphans as they could and as soon as possible. Those who turned 16 were evaluated to determine their skills and so offer them and sent them to work with whoever wanted them. Who was going to evaluate me was a matter that the nuns discussed among themselves as if the mere activity would earn them a boarding pass to the last circle of hell. In the end, it was the Mother Superior who the task fell upon.

That day, I was in the only corner of my room where the sun did not shine at noon, with my eyes closed to protect them.
I couldn't sleep when my future was so uncertain. I heard the door opening and the nun’s tiresome footsteps as she entered. She stood still, surely in the light, where the monster couldn't harm her. I heard some sort of soft sound and saw through my eyelids how the room darkened.

"Open your eyes... son."

I realized that she had made a vain attempt to remember my inexistent name. I slowly obeyed, wishing with morbid anger to see the moment the fear would spread across her face, but it didn’t happen, instead, an affable smile made its way in her round countenance. I noticed thick maroon sheets were covering the window and most of the cracks on the wall.

"You know why I'm here, child."

It wasn't a question, so I didn't bother answering.

"I brought you a couple of gifts," she continued speaking, as if it was a common, social visit.
I was furious to hear that, she hadn't come to check on me since I first arrived at the orphanage sixteen years ago and suddenly she brought me some presents to make sure I wouldn't hurt her?

"Come on now, look at them. I'm sure this clothes are going to look great on you. And this must be the only book from Saint Agnese that you haven’t read."

Forgetting for a moment how angry I was, I cocked my head in curiosity. I didn’t think she even knew that I could read. She smiled again.

"I know you wander around at night, I’ve seen you study in the library during the midnight hours."

I slowly got to my feet and made wary steps towards the book on her extended hand, expecting her to get away from me, but she didn't. I took the book in my hand and read the title on regal purple letters embroidered over the white satin cover: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.

"I know you've studied the French and English languages nearly since you learned to read, consequently I trust you will be able to read it. I’ve had it for a short time, given that it is quite a recent book, but I was wary of including it in the library, you see, fearing you could hurt your heart with such a reading. Now I think you are ready for it and perhaps you will find it pleasant.”

I wanted to say something, but words seemed to have flown away from my mouth and my tongue was bound by the burning knot in my throat. The Mother Superior seemed to notice, because her had softly pressed around mine, comforting me.

“I know that you are outstandingly smart, child, you have learned everything the orphanage could teach and much, much more. I've seen your drawings and some of your poems, you are very talented."

I was speechless, nonetheless, her optimism irritated me, when we both knew that it was best to prepare me for the worst.
”Will anyone want a monster like me, even to work?” I asked in my profound, rough voice, like the one of a crow.

Her old, fragile hand moved from mine to caress my face. The touch startled me, I had never been touched with such gentleness, I didn’t know what to expect out of it. And I had to fight every single one of my emotions to avoid leaning into the sudden warmth.
”We'll find someone, little one.” She smiled once more, and I thought I could find the all the peace of the heavens in the affable wrinkles her forgiving visage displayed.

The Mother Superior left and I stared at the door, possibly wishing that she came back for me.

Afterwards, I inspected what she had brought me. The wool clothing was black and rather austere, but enough to survive a winter or two; I dressed with this clothes and I checked my image in the moss-grown puddle of water which remained on the floor from the first rain until the last of the season. I felt protected by the jacket and the hoodie, which covered my appearance enough so anyone would have to pay close attention to guess my condition.

I crossed my legs and sat on the floor, glaring the maroon cloth that nobody had thought of fetching until that day. I pondered of my world of black sands and the girl that I never met but once. Lost in thought, I fell asleep.

I knew that I was dreaming the moment I saw the black sands and the overcast sky again. I felt the wind rushing into my face. Trying to stay calm to avoid any kind of startle that could wake me up, I advanced through the whirls of sand. Someone was calling me without pronouncing my inexistent name, the tinkling sound of that voice had only echoed in the most remote places of my mind.
It was her, standing in front of me, the sand feminine figure. Her childish forms were gone, and while she was not yet a woman, she wasn’t a child either.

"Who are you?" I questioned, begging her not to run away like she did the first time.

"I don't know that better than you do."

"What is your name?"

The corners of her lips rose slightly, announcing the saddest smile I had ever witnessed and making me feel like the cruellest of all beings.

"Has your heart lost all reminisce of me yet? It’s me, Melinöe."

She tilted her head and laughed, then disappeared into the wind. I stretched my arms miserably trying to capture the sand in my fists, but I didn’t manage to even grasp even her hand.

Everything around me was now empty and I didn't know where to run or what to do to get to her, so I materialized a path that should take me to where I had been three years ago, to the place where I first saw her; the sand opened like a trench and I walked along the way in silence, watching the esplanades and the dunes extend into the distance around me.

While I walked down the path, I wondered what would happen to my world if I died, because I had no intention of waking up and that necessarily meant that I'd have to die. As soon as this dark thought took possession of me, the sand walls close and began to swallow me, as if it were water. I screamed and cursed, fighting as I reached out to grab hold of anything that could save. But all was sand.
I put all my energy into commanding the sands to stop, to let me back to the surface, to no avail. I tried to conjure something to support me, but again nothing occurred. I opened my mouth to scream again and the black dust made its way into my lungs. I wanted to call the sand woman, but I couldn’t even breathe. Just when I thought I was going to die, a beautiful, jewelled and elegant black hand emerged from the sands.

It pushed its way through the thick grains of black sand that clung to me as if they had limbs, trying to reach me. I tried to take it, but I couldn't, for the figure dissolved as soon as I touched it.

”We are losing you," a delicate jingling voice whispered, withdrawing her hopeless help.

“No, Melinöe!”

My eyes shoot open. I woke up drenched in sweat and with my hand outstretched above me, trying to reach something that wasn’t there. It took me several seconds to remember where I was.

When I did, the grief of the loss fell over me. I looked around, glaring in despair at the filthy walls, the rotten ground and the disgusting water nesting on it. I shook my head and decided that very moment that I couldn't stay there any longer, nor wait for someone else to come and rescue me.

I thought about the last thing Melinöe said to me in the dream, and closed my eyes to find the hope and light only her name could give me.

With conviction filling my veins, I jumped to my feet and gathered in an old sack my few clothes, my book and Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. I approached the stacked furniture under which I hid the small bag with the few coins I had gathered over the years. I rushed with it for I didn’t want to allow myself to think about it —although I didn't think I was likely to regret it.

I walked alone through the dark hallways I knew by heart, as if I was again a ghost haunting Saint Agnese. When I turned on the the first corner, I raised my sight to find the clock and ponder whether it was prudent to leave already. It was midnight, meaning I had six hours to find shelter of the daylight and some food.

Trying to stop thinking and aware that the Mother Superior was witnessing my flight, I left. A part of me, then and now, wished that she had to stop me.