Ghosted

By Rowan Laurel Flynn

There are always two sides to ghosting.  The victim's and the ghoster.   For the victim,  the hurt and the anger can go on for a long time.  He/she can cannot understand what happened or what went wrong and can become mentally unstable.    The ghoster carries on with a new or more fulfilled life and ignores the victim.

 

Anne waits in the bandstand on Christmas Eve for her lover.    Deep down she knows that she will never see him again.  Five months without contact from him has made her mentally ill.  She knows what she must do to find peace.

 

This short story set in Whitby, North Yorkshire, England  includes dark themes, sex and bad language.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rowan Laurel Flynn
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201203177

Rowan Laurel Flynn

Rowan lives in north east England and uses the north Yorkshire coastline as the settings for her stories. When she isn't writing she likes to visit York, Whitby and Robin Hood's Bay and other Yorkshire villages. Her interests are playing with trainsets and growing herbs.

Book preview

Present Day – The Victim

Iam sitting in the bandstand at Whitby, watching the waves slamming against and over the harbour walls and pier.  The wind is howling and sounds eerie which matches my mood perfectly.  Light rain which had started earlier as I stepped off the train has turned into a torrential downpour. 

My emotions are raging like the icy waters of the North Sea, and I am wondering where I have gone wrong. 

The last five months without Paul have driven me almost insane.    It is Christmas Eve, and he has been silent.  Not a phone call, not a text.  Just nothing.

If you have found somebody else, please just give me closure, I mutter to myself.

It doesn’t take more than a minute to type a text or send a voicemail.  Surely you have been alone at some point in the last few months?   Tears trickle slowly down my cheeks, and I wipe them away impatiently.

Feeling cold and wet through I know that I won’t be able to sit here all night without somebody getting suspicious or wanting to help me.  I pick up my plain black holdall which isn’t heavy and fits onto my shoulder easily.  With a big sigh I start to walk down Pier Road and St. Ann’s Staith which lead to the famous Victorian swing bridge.  The shops have closed early due to the weather and the staff wanting to spend as much time as possible with their loved ones on one of the special nights of the year.   There aren’t many people about which is to be expected.  I can imagine them cosy at home waiting for tomorrow and feel envious. 

Many doorways have wreaths tied to them to keep them from blowing them away.  A few that have given up the battle of being fastened down can be seen bobbing in the harbour.  They look to be as lifeless as I feel.

The church clocks strike five o’clock.  It is a beautiful sound to listen to and now I only have seven hours to fill before Christmas Day dawns.

I cross the swing bridge and pause halfway for a