A Place Called Home

Walking at the dead of night. Such a poor idea hadn’t crossed her mind in the better part of the year until tonight. But then, never in her life had she witnessed such a gruesome scene. 

The sound of rain stabbing the windows as if to break them still resonated in her ears. It was the rain that woke her and thank the all mighty for that! For even if the situation had been less than ideal, at least it bore with it the ineffable fact that she hadn’t done it. She, Margaret Wilson, didn’t kill her mother. 

Because let’s face it. Everyone had wanted to kill her one time or the other. The closest one was to her, the more the desire to terminate her existence. Her mother, Cleo, was cruel and spiteful. The only reason Margaret lived with her was that she didn’t have anybody else. Not that she ought to care. 

She didn’t care.

She cared. The fact dawned on her at that moment, but it was too late. Going back to the house would only mean more trouble. And yet. Margaret found herself walking towards the house while the horrendous scene displayed once more in her mind. There were guts and the reeking of blood. So much blood. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she halted and sat on the dampened pavement. The dirt and rain seeping slowly through her clothes. It was unclear what had happened. Even to her, the witness. With her eyes still closed, she tried to make a re-count of the occurrence. 

The first thing that came to her once more was the sputtering of the rain. She ran downstairs when a screeching sound echoed rumbled through the house. As she descended she realized it was her mother, screaming while blood oozed from her stomach. 

A black silhouette, that wore a top hat and a sort of cape. A gun in one hand and a knife in the other. The figure held the knife in midair, about to strike her mother, but then, it turned and faced her. Its glance yellow, inhuman, like a cat. But even that wasn’t the most disturbing fact. What perturbed Margaret the most was the figure dissolved into thin air. Like a gust of mid-autumn breeze. 

It was mid-autumn anyway. But the figure wasn’t air. Was it? Could it be she imagined the entire ordeal? 

Her breath a white ghost as she stood on the front lawn. The house of her childhood. Of her life, if she were to be honest, for she never left. A smile played on her lips, half true, half irony. For only once she tried to leave. Margaret lasted the best part of three months in a rented apartment until the silence drove her to unbearable madness. 

To some strangers, it might sound impossible to believe. Her friend, Ana, had the audacity to ask her, “But Maggie, how come you miss your mother’s nagging you around?” Even after she told her not to call her ‘Maggie’. Her mother hated how people insisted on deforming her name. 

She shook her head. It was time to go inside. The door creaked as she pushed it open. A gasp was all she could muster at the scene in front of her. For a moment she froze in place. It was all red. Margaret tried to stop her imagination as the abundance of possibilities was exhibited in her brain. 

Blood. The windows, the sofa, even the television was decorated with streaks of blood. But there was no sign of her mother. Her sight fixed on the black telephone on the wall. The sole possession that wasn’t sprayed with blood.

 An internal debate began. First, she was unsure they would classify the scene as a felony since there was blood, but there was no body. Second, if they found the body, she would become the primary suspect of the crime. If they decided it was a crime, that is. 

After hanging and lifting the phone a few times, she dialed 911. Not that her mom would do the same for her. But, that was the only thing she had left. The unobjectionable certainty that she was better than her mother. And she would prove it to herself, even if it was the last thing she did. It took almost fifteen minutes for the operator to understand what Margaret wanted to tell her. 

“Yes, my mother disappeared. Yes, I saw a figure kill her. No, I don’t know whether it was a man nor a woman, nor should you care, this is the twenty-first century!” It was at best infuriating, at worst bleak. These were the people in charge to search the truth. 

First arrived the inspector. A middle-aged man who wore a permanent frown. He grunted at Margaret and stepped inside as if he did not care about the blood-drenched floor. Why she had expected the police to assign professionals to the case was beyond her. Then some officers stood at the threshold. To protect him, not her.

Her mouth dried as he pressed his naked finger to the wall. She thought they were supposed to use gloves for that. And then he sniffed the finger, and as if it were the most delicate of activities, he slid the finger through his tongue. 

Margaret flinched as his manic laughter soaked the room. And then he gestured to the police officers that stood at the threshold. 

Next thing she knew, Margaret was on her knees. The heavyweight of the police’s hands on her shoulders, pressing her down to the ground. It was as if they wanted her to kiss the soaked floor. Her wrists bound by the cold handcuffs that threatened to cut her skin if she moved more than necessary. “I don’t know what game you playin’ but I don’t like it one bit. Take ‘er,” said the inspector. 

A shiver escaped her while she waited in the cold cell. Different scenarios played in her mind to kill time. 

She squinted her eyes when a distant cough woke her. Margaret took a look around and grinned at her ability of falling asleep anywhere. If only she had been a plane assistant instead of a manicurist. Not that one could guess her job by looking at her own hands. 

Another, more insistent cough claimed her attention. It was the inspector. She suppressed the need to roll her eyes and followed him toward the interrogation room. 

“Why did you call the police?” 

The question hung in the air as the silence stretched through time. It was a dangerous game to play. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to state the obvious, and he wasn’t going to repeat the question. At the end of the day, he had more to lose, for she had nowhere to be at the dawn of Monday. 

“I’m not your enemy, Miss. You and I both know it was paint in the room.” 

She swallowed, trying to make sense of the words, but the more she let them slide to her subconscious, the less her woken mind understood. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound escaped her. 

“Look, I can’t let you go when you’re like that. You need at least some psych’s help.” 

Margaret stifled a laugh. She could barely imagine what she looked like in the eyes of the inspector. He could be right. Some psychological help would prove beneficial for her overall health. Maybe that was why none of it made sense. 

The inspector guided her to her cell, “Call someone.” His voice distant, trying to hide his natural proclivity to kindness. 

Disorienting was the closest word she could muster regarding her experience. First, she thought she’d be held in her cell against her will, waiting for a fate worse than death. No, no, first she thought her mother had been dead! Her mother! In the tumult of it all, she forgot about her mother. 

“Inspector.”

 He turned and cursed as his styrofoam cup spilled hot coffee over his hand. 

She directed her glance to her fidgeting hands, embarrassed. “What about my mother?” 

The inspector said an unintelligible phrase. He paused and waited for a response, then he coughed once again and said, “File a missing persons report in 24 hours.” And left. 

She closed her eyes tight shut. But no matter the amount of darkness she could muster, things were still unclear. At least she grabbed the telephone and made the call, fearing the inceptor would withdraw the offer. 

                                                                             •          

Ana was her last friend left. Not that she ever had many friends to brag about in the first place. But each and everyone had fallen out of her life for one reason or another. Nothing dramatic. Deep down she suspected there was an unlikable element unique to her. 

Not that she liked them either. Nonetheless, she was human, and her humanity claimed her for the lack of company from time to time. 

Ana was different. Margaret liked Ana, and her gut told her Ana liked her back. There was something seamless about their frequent exchanges that rang true, unlike her other relations. And so, the most natural thing was to call Ana. 

She answered faster than she expected. Not letting even a ring pass by. Almost as if she were expecting Margaret’s call, though of course, that was impossible. 

Margaret braced herself. It was cold outside the police station, the air like an icy hand pressing against her humid clothes. A car pulled over, eliciting an authentic smile from her. And then she found her body unmoving, every limb paralyzed as Ana descended from the automobile. For in her head laid a top hat, and a black cape draped her slim figure whole. 

Her eyes found Ana’s yellow gaze, an effect of the amber light that spilled down the walkway. And, she realized, she wanted her to know it was her. It was the only explanation her mind could come up with. A person with common sense would never show up the way she did. 

“Let’s face it, Maggie. We were both tired of her nagging.” Ana opened the passenger’s door. 

“Don’t call me Maggie.” 

Ana let out a dry laugh and signaled her to go inside. Margaret did as if possessed. 

“Look Maggie, I’m sorry things turned out so… well, not so good. But I wanted to do you a favor since you’re my best friend.” 

“But why, and the blood that was paint, and where’s the body? Where’s my mother’s corpse?” 

“Corpse? My, my,” Ana began to drive, “aren’t we in a ‘Poe mood’ now?” 

Margaret took her hands toward her face, unable to utter a coherent sentence. “But why?” she finally said. 

“So there’s nothing else keeping us apart.” And she drove towards the highway. If anyone could see the car from a distance, it would appear as if it merged with the sky. Disappearing into the eternity of the firmament. But truth was it didn’t disappear, and Margaret was trapped and Ana wasn’t driving toward nowhere in particular. 

She drove home. To their home.