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You don’t read much. This isn’t something you’re necessarily proud of, it’s just a fact. You don’t have time to read much. You do too much. Nor do you watch a lot of movies, or at least movies that aren’t yours. You don’t believe in any sort of God, you haven’t in decades (how could you, when you yourself are a god? how could you, when any God there may have been abandoned you long ago?), nor do you believe in the supernatural or any sort of afterlife.
Despite all of this, you’re familiar with the trappings of horror movies. You’re aware of what a haunting looks like. Of course you are.
You’re in a ghost story now.
You’re the victim of a haunting.
That’s being a little dramatic, you suppose, but what is your life if not one big performance? A little theatrics are allowed now and then.
You open your secret place, the graveyard of your beloveds. You run your finger along the length of the sword, tracing a line from tip to hilt. You want to think about him, to recall the love and support and unwavering loyalty, but something (someone) won’t let you, and instead all you can recall is the way his guts felt in your gloved hands and all you can see is the betrayal in his eyes. You feel a knot in your chest so hard that it hurts, and you close the lid on your keepsakes.
Your thoughts turn to this new person, this replacement, this impostor. This man you don’t even dignify with a name. You don’t know his secret identity (honestly, you couldn’t care less if you tried), and you certainly don’t think of him as Noir. Every time you address him by that name, you know you’re telling a lie.
This man, wearing your friend’s skin, playacting as him and doing it badly. You feel a heat behind your eyes every time he speaks.
Every time he speaks .
Your friend is dead by your own hand, and you’re being haunted by a cheap knockoff.
And that voice. You hate that voice.
Noir couldn’t speak, but he had a sound. The raspy hitches in his breathing that indicated laughter. The way his breathing became labored when he was angry. The soft little snores that only you could hear when he fell asleep in meetings. You would know the sound of his hand gestures anywhere.
This impostor is too loud. Even if he never spoke (he is always talking, and you can always hear him) , he is too loud. His breathing comes easily, the result of his unmarred face. You hear a whimper of fear every now and then—something you never heard from Noir.
The noises bother you, but the fear disgusts you. The "yes man" attitude disgusts you. Noir would speak his mind when you were alone. You still did as you pleased, but you always appreciated the input. He was never scared of you, and you respect— respected that.
You are in a ghost story, and the ghost doesn’t even have the decency to haunt you himself.
He looks at you, clear-eyed and clean-faced, with more hair than Noir ever allowed himself to have. He looks at you directly, incapable of mimicking Noir’s head-tilt, favoring his good eye. You look at this man through his mask and feel rage and disgust at the audacity he has to even wear the same suit.
You cannot think about your friend without pain. You cannot think of this newcomer without fury.
I cannot think of you without wondering how many more times we’ll have to do this song and dance before you learn your lesson.