The shadow of the floating apparition grew heavy over me, like a weighted blanket. I had never seen any visions until I stepped into the cathedral on that rainy Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago. I gazed at the floating woman in the old chair, with my mouth hanging open, when I heard a small voice behind me. I turned around in utter revelation, to see a young girl who appeared to be about my age. She glanced at me then back up at the physique, then began to speak in her quiet, shaky voice, “You see it too?”
I stared in shock at the cloaked woman in this floating chair, it seemed she could touch the top of the towering steeple. I had seen figures peering through the stained glass of the church windows, sitting on the pastor’s stool at the dining table, or dancing in ball gowns, but never have I seen this floating woman on an ancient wooden chair.
“Are you real?” I asked the grey-eyed girl. I mostly kept to myself at church because it quickly became hard for me to tell who was a real person, and who was a vision. I usually knew when, and when not to talk because I had mezmorized the faces of the people who were real, but I had never seen this girl with the curious eyes before, so I questioned my thinking.
“Am I real? Well of course I’m real, are you real?”
“Duh! I’m speaking to you right now, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard one of the visions talk.”
“You call them visions? I call them Saints.” She smirked as if she were challenging me.
“Saints? That’s nonsense,” I stopped for a minute after the shadow of the buoyant woman stretched outward. We each slowly, turned out heads up toward the figure, to see her head hanging low, gawping in our direction, “Shall- shall we get out of here?”
We ran out to the church-yard, where she told me her name, Akilah. I told her mine in which she giggled.
“Bryan? How original.”
My face flustered with heat. “Original is not a bad thing! What is Akilah, anyway?”
“The name Akilah has an Arabic origin, meaning intelligent and logical. What does Bryan mean?” She mocked and, again, cocked her little smirk.
“Well, my name is Irish!”
“Funny,” she said with a scowl sheathing her pale face.
I caught on to her attitude pretty quickly, in which I began to pick up some of her convulsions. When I noticed she was getting irritated, I simpered. When she said something intriguing, I pitched an eyebrow into the air. And when she asked a question, I squinted my eyes to show I was thinking.