Ghost of the Past

Zaalia was young when it happened, too young. She tried not to think about it, but the memories were always in the back of her mind, lurking. They threatened her if she ever tried to forget, trapped in her own mind. 

Her deadbeat dad was often at a bar drinking away his liver or losing games of poker, leaving her mother with little money to raise and look after Zaalia. 

Well-tempered and always patient with Zaalia, her mother was much too caring for her abusive dad. It confused her, why her mom ever married her father, but her mom would tell her stories of them from before Zaalia was born. How they were so in love, young, and content. Zaalia always figured she had been the end of that.   

Before Zaalia was born, her parents had tried to have children, but they were told that her mother could conceive, until Zaalia came along by miracle... or curse.  

Her father’s drinking started shortly after Zaalia was born and he lost his job, but he was almost always gone, passed out at a bar or losing the very little money they had left, in a poker game.  

It was no surprise when he died of liver cancer when Zaalia was six.  Her mother wept for him. Zaalia didn’t bother shedding a single tear.   

Her mom got a job in a small bakery that barely made enough to pay the bills, Zaalia would play at a small park not far from the modest shop.  

There were always other children and parents at the park, so her mother was never concerned about her, but it had never occurred to Zaalia to be worried for her mother.  

Anyone within a few miles of the bakery heard the gunshots and the scream that followed. A scream that was all too recognizable to Zaalia, a sound that would haunt her in her nightmares for years to come.   

A fearless yet fear filled young girl, Zaalia sprinted toward the sound of her mother’s screams. She arrived panting and sweating, searching for her mother. She found her in the back, where the dough was made, lying in a pool of her own blood. A small, circular hole was in the middle of her forehead. Her same sincere blue eyes that often smiled proudly at Zaalia were now cold and empty, no warmth in their depths.  

Zaalia fell to the ground and draped herself over her mother, the smell of bread and her mom's cheap perfume in her nose. She cried into her apron; blood covered and distraught.  

Who robs a bakery?!  

When Zaalia was seven, she was shipped off to live with her God-awful great aunt who smelled of old lady and was always knitting an ugly sweater or pair of socks she would force Zaalia to wear.  

She dreamt of her mother every night in her worn clothes, brown hair pulled into a tight bun, circles ever-present under her soft, kind eyes. Every day, though, a part of her mom's face would fade in her mind as she slowly lost her memory of her mother to age.  

There was a trial for the event a couple years after the shots were fired. As it turned out, the two men found responsible were sentenced to a life of rotting in jail. Zaalia, however, never felt that that was enough of a punishment for the crime of stealing her mother from her.  

She begrudgingly adjusted to life with her aunt, hating what her life had become. Her aunt was always bugging her about something, so she spent most of her days in her dark, musky room. It had one, miniscule window that was dust-covered when she first arrived; an uncomfortable, lumpy twin bed; and a lamp with the most horrific lamp shade to ever exist.   

One, particularly cloudy day, Zaalia had locked herself away in her room reading a book, attempting to escape the nightmare that had become her life into the world an author was creating for her, when she heard the faint ringing of a phone. There was one in the drab house and it was downstairs in the kitchen.  

Unsure as to whether she had imagined it, she huffed as she got up. The phone rarely rang, it was usually dead, so she supposed it was important. Her aunt was out doing old-lady-things, so she had to get it. She plodded down the steep, narrow stairs, ears straining for another ring.  

As she walked into the kitchen, she eyed the landline carefully; there was no sign it had ever rung. Confused, she trudged closer and inspected it. Abruptly, it rang again, louder than ever, causing Zaalia to jump. After another alarmingly loud ring, she cautiously picked up the phone and put it to her ear.  

“Hello?” She asked into the dead silence on the other line.  

“Zaalia? Is that- is that you?” The voice was cracked and struggling to get each word out.  

“Mom?” Zaalia felt all color leave her face and the phone clattered to the ground. It had been years since she heard that voice, but it was undoubtably her mother’s.  

“Zaalia!”  

She could hear the slight voice yelling through the dropped phone. This is not happening, hang it up now!  Zaalia thought to herself.

She bent to pick up the phone and brought the cool, hard plastic to her ear. Despite her brain telling her to, she couldn't seem to make herself put the phone back into its slot.  

“This is cruel, what is wrong with you? Who are you? This is not funny!” Zaalia was fuming.  

“Sweetie, I know that this is c-confusing, but it is me! I need- I need you to help me. I’m- I don’t know how to get out,” each word was punctuated by sharp, labored breaths.  

“Get out of where?! Where are you? Mom?” Zaalia was sobbing uncontrollably now.  

Trying to catch her breath, her hand dropped to her side, knuckles white. How is this possible?! Flashbacks shot through Zaalia’s head of her mother’s lifeless body in a pool of blood, her eyes, the smell of bread and perfume, the small gunshot. It was so much at once and her head was spinning.  

Fighting the dizziness, Zaalia forced her trembling hand to obey her brain as she lifted the phone to her face for the third time. 

“M- mom?” She whispered into the phone, voice shaking with emotion, 

There was a dull, continuous beep that stung in her ears. The line was dead.  

“MOM?!”