The girl in the mist (2)

I suppose it I'm not really missing anything much. How can you miss something when it's always with you? A quiet voice, aching pleasurably in your ears. I remember this joke I heard once, an explicit one in those days. This was back when I was young and living, and such things made me blush. Someone asked me, who derives more pleasure out of intercourse, the man or the woman? I, as usual, had nothing to say. Put your finger in your ear, is it the finger that feels pleasure or the ear? At that point, I had no clue about either. 

But once you begin to hear the voice in your ears, the constant aching, how can you ever want anything more? Today, I stood alone, watching the snow capped hills in the distance. I said, I wish you were here. I say that all the time, these days. The voice replied, I wish you were here too. It's so beautiful where I am. And I'm so alone, and so are you. 

Is it ever possible to be alone when the voice talks to you all the time? When the wind shook, the voice said, don't worry, put your head on my shoulder, nothing will happen. Sometimes I hear the voice, sometimes I become the voice. When it's my turn, I say, please sleep, you have a long day ahead or something to the tune of, is the food not good enough? You have to at least pretend to be interested. You can't let people know you are losing interest, this is very important for you. 

This goes on all day, more so at night. At night, I hum and touch warm cheeks. I breathe deeply and sometimes, I confess. I say, I don't remember how it is to be so close to anyone. I'm scared, scared that I can never ever be real enough for anyone. I'm so flawed that it's better that no one gets to ever touch me. It is better that I remain a silhouette, the one who vanishes as you get closer? I was once real too. I used to sleep in warm arms and breathe someone else's breath. But now, I'm afraid I can't bear to share anyone's bed. I'm the ghost that you spot in your mirror, but when you turn around, I'm not there. 

I don't know how I became like this. I need to confess to you everything. I want to be human too, I want to be more than my desire to possess you or drive you mad. But I'm so afraid. I waited a long time for someone to notice me. But no one did. I called your name so many times, I reached out my icy cold hands, but you never grabbed them. I stood at the corner, waiting for you to notice me, approach me, say a few words, anything that would make me believe I was a human to you. But you didn't. Then I watched you leave, in your car, as I faded away in the distance. 

Even if I remain just a voice, with no bodily form or remembrance, I suppose I can make do with it. I don't think anyone is coming to save me. But I can still save you, till there's nothing left of me, not even a wisp of smoke. I would do anything to save you, because no one came to save me. 

I hear the voice again, growling with desire. What do you need, I ask? You, it says. But I'm already yours, whatever that's left of me, I say. 

In the night, I travel back to the fog laden road. In the headlights of a car, maybe I will be visible again. Maybe, someone will see me for who I am. 

The voice asks me to curl up inside its bed. This time I refuse. You come to me, I say. I hope it will soon. I've waited a long time, invisible like drops of water fallen into the mud. I can wait some more. 

I don't remember how many centuries I have waited. I don't know how many more I will have to wait. In the end, we all wait. Some like me, to become human. And some others yearn to be ghosts like me. The voice asks me again, are you thinking of me? I hear it, but I pretend not to. I wish it would hold me in its long arms and crush me back into existence. But then I remember it's just a voice, that's all, waiting to be heard like me.