Mother - Chapter 2.2

Footsteps. Running.

I snatch a pillow from Mother’s bed and clutch it tight to my chest, shutting off the symbols of blue light on my forearm.

The door swings open and Father stands there, filling the space with his large frame. He doesn’t look at Mother. He barely looks at me. Just glances with a pained expression. There are tears in my eyes left from when Mother hurt me . . . doing whatever she did.

Father insists that Conrad and I sit in the living room whilst he calls the doctor. He needs to be aware of Mother’s passing. I know he’s stalling, avoiding the inevitable. He will have to talk to us, comfort us—a skill he’s worse at than I am. Though I sympathise with his position. There’s nothing he can do or say that will change the facts. And I don’t want to nod along and pretend his words are helping me.

But it’s different for Conrad. He’s not like us. Who will help him get through this?

He’s beside me on the couch, head in my lap, sobbing. I think I should rub his shoulder or something, but my arm is pinning Mother’s pillow to my chest. I can only caress the silk case with my fingertips, try to focus on the smooth texture rather than the floral scent I pick up.

Father hangs up the phone and returns, stands in the doorway. His mouth parts, makes a few tiny movements. He either can’t find the words or doesn’t have the strength to say them.

He sits beside Conrad, pulls him into his arms.

Like this we stay.

The world is silent. Like it ended but we’re too numb to notice.

#

At some point, Father powers on the TV. I approve the decision. The quiet is too heavy to bear. He selects a cartoon, and I see the motive; he’s catering for Conrad, who’s become very still, save the occasional whimper.

The show is upbeat. Too happy.

Feels almost as awkward as the silence.

#

A knock on the door announces the doctor’s arrival.

“Can I go to bed?” I ask Father, trying to look as tired as possible. Night has fallen, so it isn’t an unreasonable request. Though perhaps he wants us to stay together.

He excuses me with a small nod. I want to rush upstairs, but that would discredit the tired façade. So I drift to my room as Father welcomes the doctor into the lobby with a sullen bow.

#

My bedroom looks odd, full of useless junk I can never imagine using again. I can’t see myself sitting at my desk, playing chess with Father. Or playing video games with Conrad. Or reading one of the many tomes from the huge bookcase. Those are all alien concepts to me now.

My arm is rigid from holding the pillow for so long. I finally relax, peel my arm away. I’m hoping I imagined what happened, that my skin is clear, normal. But that fantasy is squashed as the room fills with blue.

The symbols shimmer. Taunting me. I don’t know why I hid them from Father and Conrad. It felt like the right thing to do, somehow. I can’t explain them any more than they can, and they have enough to deal with.

I search my wardrobe, flipping through long-sleeved shirts, looking for the darkest one. I come across a thick black shirt which has the word ‘mastermind’ printed above a rubik’s cube. Mother bought it for my birthday, thought it was funny. I never wore it until now. The title ‘mastermind’ deserves more respect than to be associated with an easy children’s puzzle.

The dark sleeves do a decent job blocking out the symbols, though I can still see some light shining through the fabric. It’ll do. I can pin my arm to my side should the need arise.

I push open a Velux window and clamber onto the rooftop, hands chaffing on the porous tiles. There’s a biting chill in the air, but it feels refreshing, cleansing.

Our apartment complex offers a panoramic view of the city. A narrow canal runs alongside the street, and a wooden bridge, illuminated by golden lanterns, offers a path to the stores on the other side, which are closed for the night. There are neon lights glistening in every storefront. Behind a pharmacy window, a yellow neon cat waves with a mechanical arm. Conrad always waves back at that thing.

I hide out here whenever Conrad annoys me, which is a lot. But there’s no hiding now. Not from what I really want to get away from.

Two thoughts. Two problems. Both locked in battle for control over my brain. The death of my mother and the strange symbols she left on my arm.

The symbols win. How can they not? They threaten everything I know about the world and how it’s supposed to work. I’ve lived my entire life with logic as the foundation for every decision I make. My mind hinges on facts, on the provable, on empirical evidence. What am I supposed to do with these symbols? They belong in some cheesy fantasy movie that Conrad would watch. Not the real world, where people aren’t supposed to shoot light out of their hands or brand people with . . .

Magic.

The thought slips out before I can do anything about it. I can’t stand myself for entertaining the idea, even for a second. But what else can I call it? When something defies all reasoning, what else can it be?

I hate the situation I’m in, can feel my blood boiling just thinking about it. My entire life I haven’t been challenged by anything, not a single thing. I’ve won every chess tournament I’ve ever attended, even against seasoned adults. I’ve read thousands of books on war strategies and political topics. I receive top marks on every school essay I hand in. I’m not perfect at everything, but when it comes to my intellectual faculties, I’ve never struggled in that department. But this, these symbols of light etched into my arm, represent the end of all that. They pose a question I can’t answer, a challenge I can’t win.

For the first time in my life, I’m stumped, and I hate it.

I start to turn away, crawl back into my room before I jump off the roof.

A flash of blue.

I gasp, twist my head, eyes scouring the storefronts. In a shrouded alley dead opposite, suspended above the ground, are two ovals. Blue. Azure. Bursting with light.

Someone turned on one of those neon signs. That’s all. That has to be it.

But in an alley? And the exact same colour as . . .

The ovals narrow slightly, and I realise.

Eyes.

I freeze, transfixed, mind racing.

But I refuse to show any sign of fear or surprise. I just stare back, determined, channelling all of the frustration I feel.

“I will figure this out,” I say to myself. “I will win.”

The eyes narrow even further, then turn to smoke and fade into the dark.