ORIGINS: We read somewhere that lynxes and eagle-owls have a similar coloration because they have a similar diet. The book used the word spectrum, which isn’t all that different from specter, and we couldn’t resist including those ghosts and letting them haunt this series.
I would rather not owe my appearance to a bunch of ghosts, but at least I can find comfort in the fact that I don’t owe them everything that I am. I still have a voice that hasn’t been touched by the deer I eat. So long as my own voice doesn’t haunt me, so long as it doesn’t grow antlers and tears me inside out, I can live with a few ghosts and the patterns they draw in my skin. Because those aren’t my words, and they are easy to ignore.
Have I ever told you that I hate looking like an owl? I know that it can’t be helped, both of us prey on mice, and it’s only natural that we share the same coloring. But I am not Death’s pet. There is no reason for me to be haunted by ghosts too. If those mice want to spread their fear like a disease, the fastest way to do it would be to rely on owl wings. Their colors are wasted on solitary lynxes like me, they should just forget me, and redouble their efforts to haunt owls more vividly. Using brighter colors. Until that fear finally becomes a living thing.
If I lived in isolation, I probably wouldn’t believe in ghosts. But I am a living creature. The wind touches my feathers every day, and I have to eat. I can shrug off most touches before they influence me, but there is nothing I can do about my coloring. I eat rabbits. That is how I stay alive. Even the most soft-looking prey puts up a fight, and when that doesn’t work, that is when vengeful ghosts are born. Because no one wants to be forgotten. And the only thing stronger than guilt is coloring. Because, unlike guilt, mirrors can’t hide that.
It should go without saying, but I really hate looking like a lynx. Deer. Mice. Rabbits. Sure, we prey on the same things. But I know how the wind feels under my wings, I have flown closer to the true color of the sky than any lynx ever will. Shouldn’t that count for something? I deserve better than the browns of things that are meant to rot and turn into ghosts. I deserve the black of the night. That black that looks shinier thanks to the stars. Not these browns that only look duller due to the ghosts.
Let’s share this milkshake while we can. There is no need to think about the future. I know that one day we will turn into ghosts. That we will die at the hands of someone else. But I am a lynx and you are an owl. I know that we won’t haunt the same creature, and we are doomed to part ways. To become different colors in the skin of different creatures. But I don’t want to think about the future. I just want to share this milkshake with you. While we still have the same colors in common.
I want to believe in happy endings. But every movie I have seen fades to black at the end. And even though there are words written in white, they look nothing like stars to me. I don’t know how to hold onto hope. But you are an owl. We have something in common, even though it doesn’t go deeper than our skin. You have flown close to the stars, and if it isn’t too much to ask, could you please share a little bit of that color with me? It probably won’t stick to my skin. It probably won’t even leave an aftertaste in my mouth. But I need to taste hope, at least once, before I rot. Before I fade to black too, and regrets written in white haunt me endlessly.
Haven’t you heard? It is only till death do us part. When all is said and done, what we share while we are alive doesn’t matter. You can love me. I can love you. We can spend our whole lives sharing milkshakes, but our ghosts won’t remember that taste. Ghosts are free. There is no guilt. You are an owl, hasn’t Death told you these things? There is no need to daydream. You don’t have to love me from afar. Love doesn’t last. And you should sharpen your claws, before what you long for disappears without a trace. Trust me, my love, I have already sharpened mine.
Death isn’t a sequel. Ghosts don’t get starring roles. Black is black. The end. Even if your ghost is as white as starlight, the most you can hope to be is someone else’s regret or someone else’s grief, and why would you want to be that? It’s not like those you leave behind can prey on your ghost. You won’t become the indelible patterns, the unforgettable colors in their skin. They will keep eating, and it won’t be long before they adapt to life without you. And if I had your wings, I wouldn’t hesitate even a heartbeat. I would fly away. As fast as I could. Until the light blew out, and my ghost disappeared in a puff of smoke.
You can call me selfish, but this milkshake is mine. You can keep all the deer, all the mice and all the rabbits of this world, but this milkshake only has one straw and I am not about to share it with you. You may not know this, because you have never been to Hell, but I have, and you should trust me when I tell you that fire isn’t the most painful thing that will be waiting for you there. You will realize that you are replaceable. That countless other faces, that look just like yours, have already lived your life. But I refuse to spend eternity questioning my own worth. I will drink only milkshakes from now on. Until my face doesn’t resemble yours, or any other lynx’s, anymore. Until I am the only owl with a milkshake-induced coloring, and I can be sure that I won’t lose myself in countless other similar faces as soon as I land in Hell.
Sharing isn’t my thing. If I had to spend my life writing something, it would be a diary, not a movie script. Never something others would see, be influenced by or ruthlessly criticize. I would be lying if I said that I like sharing my coloring with you, but even if those patterns were words and you could read them effortlessly, there would still be things you would never know about me. I am not talking about the most secret of my dreams, the one that is only between my pillow and me. It goes way beyond that. Even if we use the same words, what you will never know is what each of them means to me. What memories each color evokes. And what dreams each pattern inspires.
I know that you are a lynx and you enjoy your solitude, I am an owl and I prefer quiet nights too. But isn’t this going a step too far? Do we really have to part ways for good? Can’t we at least leave a few breadcrumbs behind? Just one color or two. Even if we never try to find our way back to each other, can’t we at least not pretend that we never shared a milkshake? I don’t know about you, but I would at least like to remember that I am not alone in the world. That, once, I shared something with someone else, even if most nights I prefer my own company.
Do you think that life requires at least two people? Whether it is a happy ending or a sad one, do you think that for it to mean something, you have to at least share part of your life with someone else? What type of ending do you think awaits solitary creatures like us? We may share the same coloring, but at the end of the day any happiness, any sadness or any anger I may feel doesn’t come from you and yours doesn’t come from me. You prefer your own world and I prefer movies based on books. You are a screenwriter and I am a spectator. And sometimes I wonder if that still counts as sharing a life, when the object of our love, our grief and our rage doesn’t have blood running through veins.
Left: Have you seen a ghost? Was it a lynx? Was it? Was it? Was it? You can tell me. I won’t breathe a word of it.
Right: …
Left: Was it the last? Is that why you don’t have words? Don’t be sad. It’s not so bad. At least that lynx wasn’t a middle child like us.
Right: …
Left: If you were a lynx, and you could steal anything from an owl, what would you choose?
Right: Do I really have to play this game?
Left: Yes, please, remember that you love me and you would do anything for me.
Right: I suppose I would steal two of the three pairs of wings they have.
Left: Maybe you should steal a pair of eyes. Owls only have one pair of wings, my love.
Right: Two pairs belong to their angel. And it’s kinder to take the sense of safety from someone that is no longer a child than their means to feed themselves, wouldn’t you say?
Left: Do you think that, when they die, owls turn into ghosts too like the rest of us do?
Right: Sure, why wouldn’t they?
Left: I don’t know. I would like to think that working for Death has its perks. That owls are allowed to rot away, without leaving any regrets behind. Doesn’t Death already have enough birds singing in cages? Even if misery is music to his ears, owls do him a service, and that has to count for something, doesn’t it?
Left: You seem to have forgotten, my friend, that more often than not gratitude is shown in empty words. Why would you expect Death to offer his owls more than a thank you?
Left: If you were an owl, and you had learned all your lessons from the moon, what would you borrow from a lynx?
Right: Is there something lynxes have that I, as an owl, wouldn’t already have? Our coloring would be similar, and so too would be our hearing. The shape of our eyes would be different, but I am not particularly vain. I have no wish to outshine the moon.
Left: Is there really nothing you want? If I were whole, full like the moon at her darkest moment, I would feel very lonely.
Right: If you put it like that, I would borrow a hug. But I am not supposed to say that here and now. You have made me spoil what is to come.