Ghosted | Lucy Stattmann


Lucy Stattmann

Romancing The Phone Award



The message was just a text, a single word that possessed power. My fingers, my fingers, my hands, my fingers. I did not type; I watched and waited. A reply that is what I wanted. My heart was calm, so horribly steady and only a dead soul could understand the need for a beating heart.

The pen, the pen, such a simple pen. So utterly useless it rested in my palm. Through the window in the light, illuminated so bright there was a girl. Not a girl, but a woman. Her hair flowed, and her skin was bare. My eyes looked on, the Lady completely unaware. A twitch in my eye, an itch to my skin, it meant a lot to be so forgotten.

The message was written with black ink that sunk into the page like water on fabric. A single love letter, an unlikely romance… oh, how ignorance was bliss. Up the wall, into the room, the note settled on the bed. The floorboards held me afloat as two bright orbs gazed down at the unconscious Lady clutched in the confines of sleep. The world beyond my grasp was sheltered in a layer of darkness as the stars twinkled overhead.

The Lady’s phone buzzed on the bedside table, overflowing with messages from boys who loved her not. Every ounce of her porcelain skin was treasured… so beautiful, so raw, her curves so gentle like a soft summer night. My eyes so deadly and intentions bizarre, the pen carved letters into her skin that left scars. Screams echoed, blood was drawn, the ink so deep it adorned her like a tattoo. A heavy hand smothered her agonising cries that ricocheted around the room. She must have known I loved her, how my being wept to rest my lips upon her skin; to feel her warmth seep into my touch.

The pen continued to ruin the Lady, and her dull eyes stared at me with a sparkle and a shine. Tears leaked down her fleshy cheeks, but I brushed them away with my fingertips. The moisture kept dripping, like a flooding damn, and I could not stop the growing storm. The Lady thrashed and fought, she kicked and scratched, spittle flew, and for a slight moment, I saw a monster. The beauty and grace her frame once held had vanished. Rage bubbled and boiled in the pit of my stomach and then overflowed in a gruesome wail.
Redness tinged everything, and the Lady ceased, coming to a soundless stop and in her eyes, I saw more than tears, there was almost fear. The pen pierced down, assaulting her pupil. It stabbed, twisted and then I left it be. It protruded gruesomely, and I knew then, that she was nothing more than a being that possessed a dead heart.

The Lady’s chest remained stagnant; instead, the steady thump-thump of a lifeless heart began to beat. I was alive, but still, the silence was deafening. Only a dead soul could understand the need for a beating heart. I made a quick retreat out of the window and back into the night. In my pocket, my phone buzzed, and I remembered the note I left on her bed. On a backdrop of white, black ink spelled out a single word.