Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 71
My mother sits at the table, listlessly stirring
her tea. Her skin stretches over the hollow craters of
her cheeks and her eyes are empty, lost in far-away
memories and questions that have no answers.
I wish I could tell my mother the answers to
those questions. I know them. They burn in my soul
as I carry them through my eternal days. I’ve tried to
tell her. I’ve stood in front of her and screamed the
name of my killer but those empty eyes don’t see me
and she is deaf to my cries. I wish I were better at this.
There are others who have dwelt in the lower realms
for many years, chained by unfinished deeds and
words left unsaid. Those are strong, their will piercing
the veil, making their presence known.
I am still coming to terms with my new state
of being. Or not being. I am caught between two
worlds; torn between the longing to ascend to the
warm light that beckons from above and the need to
weave together the loose threads in the tapestry of my
short life.
It is my choice to remain. To cling to my
mother like a small child tugging on her skirt for
attention. One day she will see me. One day she will
hear his name. On that day, the veil will close behind
me and I will drift into the light.
veil.
But for all this to happen, I have to open the
***
My mother doesn’t go out much. Her grief
impales her to the dark confines of the house, curtains
drawn against a world that cannot understand her
pain. But today she is shrugging on her best dress
and carefully styling her thin, blonde hair. Curious,
I follow her as she walks briskly down High Street.
I expect she’s heading for the grocery store but she
walks past the red and white signs and turns down
a quiet street off the main road. Her pace quickens
with purpose then slows, scanning the numbers on
the dusty shops that line the road. Some are closed,
windows boarded and dusty, whilst others are in the
early stages of renovation. The area has a bohemian
feel, a throwback to the age of flowers and peace.
My mother stops outside a small shop. A black
curtain decorates the windows, protecting the interior
from prying eyes. I shift in the ether as the energy
around us changes. Even my mother seems to feel
it, shivering a little in the warm sun before pushing
the door with an uncertain hand. It opens, revealing a
yawning, cool darkness that envelops us as she enters
the gloom. I follow her up the narrow stairs to an
office of sorts. The simple brass plaque on the door
says
Susan Deacon, Private Detective.
My hopes rise. My mother is not going
to let the matter rest, just as I cannot rest. It must
be finished. There must be justice. There must be
answers.
The woman who greets us looks to be in
her late twenties, early thirties. Her sharp dark eyes
widen when she looks behind my mother’s shoulder.
I wonder if she can see me. It’s a fleeting impression,
maybe a glitch in the ether. She smiles warmly at my
mother and extends her hand, taking my mother’s in a
firm grip.
“Good to meet you Mrs Ryan.”
My mother smiles back and allows her hand to
be shaken before limply extracting it. She clears her
throat as she sits in the offered chair. “Thank you for
seeing me. I wasn’t sure… that is, I’ve never had to do
this before.” She sounds almost apologetic.
The woman- Susan- reaches across the battered
wooden desk and squeezes my mother’s hand.
“I wish you had no need to do this, Mrs Ryan.”
My mother tears up. “Please, call me Karen.”
“How can I help, Karen?”
My mother launches into the whole sad
story, the weeks of not knowing, of hope mixed with
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