Pembley's Secrets

   It had been the last day I've seen Mrs Pembley, a sweet and benevolent woman. In her gleaming hazel-brown eyes told stories that burnt within her. I never knew her first name, but I'd go with Irene; her demeanour yelled sophistication. Her soothing voice melted like butter on toast; I'd never forgotten the angelic voice she'd proclaimed, she'd read for the children in the neighbourhood on Children's Day. Even though we weren't her biological children, she treated us as if we were.

    She'd put us before anything else; there was never a bitter moment with Mrs Pembley. There were days she'd take me in whenever I was in the area to check up on me. She'd brush my hair, feed me, nurture me and calmed me down whenever things were course. Words can't explain the admiration I birthed for her. There was elegance in her strut and her lavender scent as sweet as new wine. But, there was never a moment that crossed my mind she was ill. Mrs Pembley always looked her best, and kindness was her nature; she stood head and shoulders above everyone, and there was a certain superiority about her.

     I'd never sense she was weak behind all what she carries. The morning her friend had proclaimed she was dead, there was a silent hush wavering in the warm summer wind. The news took everyone by surprise; my heart even skipped a beat. That day, I couldn't move or do anything. My stomach griped at the mention of death; nausea kicked in as I failed to accept her demise. The truth was overwhelming, too much of a burden for me to carry. I thought over and over--- Oh no, she's gone. I've lost the only thing that was closest to a mother. 

      I pulled my hands around my knees, hugging them so close that they dug into my chest... I could've felt my heartbeat. Every single pound in my chest. Not through my ears, that was seized by the steady drum and ominous voice of the beating drums drowned it out. But I couldn't accept it, no. I had to but I couldn't. The great pounding, the great pressure; every beat. I couldn't hear it, but I could've felt it. With every intake I felt, the invisible noose around my neck grew tighter. No, no. She's not gone she can't be. Those were the only words that comforted me---

   Mrs Pembley overdosed, so her friend, Caitlyn, told me. "She...She tried to be at her best. She underlay the overwhelming pressure of back to back fighting for custody... The doctors found traces of unprescribed anti-depressants in her bag, and near her glass," her voice loosened and remained low.

I, myself, had doubts. How could Mrs Pembley have done that just like that? I'm certain her health was fine. She hadn't look ill whatsoever.

"What were the doctor's remarks? How was her health? How could this have be?" I was as a starving kid fighting for food.

"They said it seemed pretty fine her health was stable. There was no need for the anti-depressants. It was unexpected," she paused,

"...But I know what could've caused it,"

I nodded my head, signalling for her to resume.

"Well," she continued, "Mr Pembley and her argued the night before, she called me... Told me everything, that Mr Pembley wouldn't rest until he won full custody. And other things..." her voice weakened as she couldn't continue.

That.

       Mr Pembley. Everyone knew Mr Pembley, but I, most. Mr Pembley, he was the sweetest man you'd encounter, I guarantee. Laughter always filled Mr Pembley, never a dull moment with him. Always, a smile was plastered on his face, each side of his mouth curved. I loved it when he'd smile. Lines would appear on his forehead, like ripples of waves. His eyes enclosed whenever he smiled because the force of his cheeks pushed it in even more. That's how hard he smiled. His hair was always well-groomed, eyebrows trimmed perfectly. But even he had certain flaws.

      Mr Pembley had a wave of uncontrollable anger that ignited in him every once in a while. He'd dig his nails into his palms as if he were about to punch you. His breathing would fasten, grow waveringly and vibrate. You'd think out of his mouth would release balls of fire by the way his head would twitch quickly and his body jerks. His words were more harmful. It's as if a dark grey cloud grew over his head and outpoured on him. Lightning bolts coming out of his finger every time he aims it towards you, his voice projecting thunderous sounds----

    His anger was never easy to settle down. You'd think for a sweet man, he'd be mild. But charm is deceptive; I've grown to believe that. I could've imagined what terrible fear Mrs Pembley had coursed through her veins. I could feel every jolt in her body every fearful thought pounded at her head.

After a long pause, she continued, "They realised marks on her forearm. But they were new. Mr Pembley, himself, said that he didn't know how she got it. He suggested that it was from her dealing with the stress. That she took it out her stress another way."

He did it.

"The officers didn't wish to look further because she had already been dead. It was no use continuing it. Mr Pembley now has full custody over their child."

That scared me above all. I understood that a father wants his child, but knowing Mr Pembley and what he does---I felt my stomach clench. She knew the truth, but neither did she want to accept it. She could've spoken up against this, but she remained silent. My head ached at what my mind was processing.

 Every. Single. Bit. Of. It

Though people would think I'm crazy for believing he'd done it, they would never see him as a threat. Hearing this makes me more aware of their past gestures that happened before with them. Had he been the one for their deceased newborn? What happened to Mrs Pembley's ex-husband? I know that there are many secrets that he tries to keep hidden. One day, maybe, the public will know.

"Life is like a novel. It's filled with suspense. You have no idea what is going to happen until you turn the next page."~Sidney Sheldon