A Ghost of a Flame

trigger warning - dead people??

“I’m home.” My voice echoes through our apartment, shivering through the ventilation and hitting walls, not made of stone, not of brick, not of wood. But of silence.

Here’s what I expect: a fireplace, big, flaming, warm, in front a carpet on which tea sits, in the mug my mother got when I was little - it says How Long Until School Starts? and it has my preschool’s logo on the other side. The tea is for me, of course. Hot chocolate is too sugary for a week day, my mother says when I ask, and coffee - I’m too young for coffee, and she adds that I don’t like it much, anyway. My mother herself sits in a sofa chair made of corduroy. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen, and the wobbly legs don’t help either. I would hate that chair, but my mother loves it, and I love my mother, so there’s no point. She stands to take my coat and bag, and I take them from her instead. It’s okay, I can do it. Sit, mom. I make my way to the kitchen where I put my belongings onto the floor, where I’ll get it later. I walk back, smiling and sitting in front of the fire, sipping my tea. I look backwards only to see my mother, dead, on the ground. This is what could have happened. This is what I expect.

This is not what happens next. There is no fire in the hearth, just the cold ashes of previous ones, logs crumbling on a blanket of gray. For a moment, as I stare at the remains, the world is black and white. The once colorful painting on the mantel is dull, black trees and dusty lakes. My mother’s blue sweater hangs from a coat hook, its navy blue seeming to pop out of the bland world. I blink. Everything is back. The heater blows warm air into the room, warming my vision and limbs. I move to sit on the carpet, staring the ghost of fire in the eye, willing it to come back.

I sit for a second, a minute, an hour. Time flashes by until I realize that it is dark; I can’t see a thing through the gloomy atmosphere, and my mother still has not returned.

Feeling robotic, I stand, walking to her room. My heartbeat is louder than my footsteps. My palms sweat, and I am no longer a robot, but the human I was meant to be. I resist the urge to turn on every light, start the TV and fall asleep, letting the sounds of detergent commercials push me into a dark, beautiful world of dreams. Any fantasy is better than reality.

The smooth metal of the doorknob is calming. I trace my finger along the front, but guilt builds up with each turn. I can’t delay this any longer. If there is something wrong with her, I need to know sooner rather than later.

I reach up to my forehead to swipe a clump of copper brown hair out of my eyes. Whatever happens to me - go on. That’s what she said to me last. Before I left for school. I’m worried; I have never been worried like this before; I am scared. The pounding of my chest gives me a headache, and the darkness hurts my eyes. I turn the knob, open the door. I don’t know what to expect this time. I shut my eyes before letting myself look at the room. I shake as I open them. But there is nothing. Everything is in the correct place, nothing is out of the ordinary but one thing - my mother is not there. I visualize her in my mind. She has pale skin, freckles. My hair and dark eyes. She’s strong, healthy, her muscles the product of many years spent exercising nonstop. She has pink cheeks that grow plump and happy when she smiles, and the lines under her eyes, the only symptom of her few hours of sleep each night, disappear.

Her name is Caroline.

***

I wake up on the floor. It takes a moment to remember what happened. When I do, I wish I could forget. I don’t want this to be what it is. I know for sure that she’s missing, my mother, and I know for sure that I have no way of contacting her. 

Even though I’ve begged her for years for a phone, she still refuses to give me one. But in the past years, something has broken in her. She has learned, I am responsible, I am older, I will get what I am not given, and she will not be with me forever. She wants to give me what I have deserved for a long time. 

The truth is, she’s doing this, not for her, but for me - she loves me.

And I love her.

There’s no reason not to, and so many reasons to.

So when I walk outside drearily, still in my wrinkled clothes from yesterday, and see the most horrible thing, I realize something. I cannot live without her.

She’s on the ground, right in front of me, her limbs spread apart in positions even she, a gymnast, could not manage. The worst part is her face. Her beautiful face, perfect features are gone, a mess of blood and flesh. Her hair sticks to the drying red, dyed crimson.

I’m frozen. My heart speeds too fast, I unconsciously walk backwards, tripping onto the curb. I’m so stiff that when I fall, it hurts, so damn horribly, I can’t think through the pain. I look at my wrist, it’s twisted, the source of the pain.

I will not let myself be distracted by me when my mother, my only reason to live, is lying dead at my feet. And then I allow myself to think, at least it wasn’t at my hands.

***

My mother really was the only reason for me to live. My mind is a blur - someone takes my hand, leads me to an office. I answer questions, on autopilot. I try to think about something but there are too many things to think about.

I wish I could have told her how much I loved her. I was stubborn to admit it - I’m such a piece of crap of a child.

Why was it her who died?

Who killed her?

And most importantly, though I hated the fact - when was the last time she told me she loved me? Those words are an absence, a gap in my memories of her. She must have said it, I try to convince myself. My thoughts are lies, lies I must keep myself from thinking.

She did love me. It was in her voice, everyday we spoke. Even the greatest actor cannot fake love.