Fair Virtue | Something Wicked This Way Comes
A loud thud with its tremor reverberated through the wood floor, reaching her spine.
She lied on the floor with an agonizing splitting pain in her head. Her world narrowed to that single point of trauma while the dark pool of blood expanded rapidly from the back of her head.
Her chestnut brown hair was darkening by degrees. Soaked with gore, the heavy tresses glistened under the dim light.
Her sight grew thin as she caught the silhouette slipping away in the gloom. The steps were easy-going and unbothered. A triumphant spring.
A casual jauntiness that ended as the door clicked shut.
She willed herself to strain against the leaden weight of her limbs, managing nothing more than a faint flutter of her eyelashes.
Her breath came shallow as she was violently unmade. Her strength drained away into the floorboards until every part of her body detached from her being; until it no longer belonged to her.
The chill crept on her furiously. She stared at the painting on the wall. Her sight locked on its painted stare.
Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out. Her gaze remained until her last light gave way to absolute void.
A lush, bountiful home garden surrounded by unusual velvet red-hued Nikko Blues that would color the gloom and chase the blue away.
One walking in with eyes closed might have thought they stumbled upon a tea party. Mouth-watering scent of marzipan and sweet fruit filled the air.
There was a pomegranate tree that felt as old as the family house itself, that started from the fruit gifted by Kristen.
They were inseparably close. Those long afternoons were spent dragging phone extension lines from room to room, as they chatted endlessly after school when they weren't already hanging out together.
Either at her place or at Kristen's picture-perfect home.
School had only resumed from a long break a week ago, yet they were already planning for the next break.
Two giggling teenagers huddled over the kitchen island with Mrs. Costa's freshly baked pecan chocolate chip cookies and pressed pomegranate juice while they chatted away about their picnic plans.
The looming deadline for the assignment was now an afterthought.
Memories she always kept close to her heart.
Growing up as her father's little apprentice, they shared a deep devotion to seed, weed, and plot that went far beyond any trade. She spent her youth drying herbs, mastering their botanical language, and learning the benefits hidden within every leaf and root.
They tended the softest soil patch for the living memento from her best friend.
Seed has been sown.
It had since grown into a dense tree. Its sprawling canopy cast a deep shadow over the house, keeping it cool through the dead of summer.
And her pomegranate jam was to die for: a jar of jellied ruby with just the right amount of tart and crunch.
Cathy was never stingy with the harvest of her garden and she loved sharing them.
The towners always looked forward to her succulent tomatoes. They made the ultimate Bolognese sauce. Even Campari tomatoes were pale in comparison to hers.
She had always maintained that the earth must be fed well for it to bless us with a bountiful harvest.
She had poured all of herself into the place. She did the heavy labor entirely with her own hands, even installing the sprinklers herself so no clumsy tradesmen would stomp all over her precious landscapes.
She was endlessly proud of her thriving garden.
She would sit at the engawa in the late afternoon with her favorite lapsang souchong, a notoriously menacing dark smoky blend with a flavor profile that would linger on one's palate.
She marveled at her handiwork. She was completely immersed in a quiet satisfaction and a deep serenity as she sipped her tea.
Her children had branched out to build nests of their own. Though she was free to come and go as she liked on her own terms, she kept her visits strictly measured, out of a casual preference for her own routine.
As natural as tide to the moon, she was ever pulled back to this familiar space.
There were simply too many precious memories here. This was where she had single-handedly raised her family in the wake of her late husband's public scandals.
She remained entirely sanguine despite everything. No one else could weather a succession of tragedies like her without being uprooted and ruined.
Photo by Abhishek Yadav on Unsplash
The rain had reduced to a damp drizzle blowing across the street at the end of the morning.
Clad impeccably in black, a hickory-handled umbrella clutched tight in her hand, she approached the iron gate.
Her manicured finger pressed the doorbell, and she waited. No one answered. She made a call, then she pressed the bell three more times. She redialed the number and raised the phone to her ear again. Still no answer.
She retreated a few steps away from the gate and took a deep breath. Then she swept her gaze, giving a look over the house before she dialed the emergency services.
A quarter of an hour dragged by before the police car's flashing lights cut through the oppressive mist.
After assessing the perimeter, the officers split. One scaled the low wall to check the back of the house while the other stayed with Griselda.
She was a picture of composure still standing under the shelter of her umbrella near the gate. Even when the officer spoke to her, she answered in a flat voice with a glassy stillness in her eyes.
Suddenly, the first officer sprinted back around the side of the house. His boots splashed the puddle of water across the iron gate when he halted right in the middle of it.
"Dispatch, Unit 4-Charlie. En route to a Code Red / possible DOA at the location. Show me urgent backup."
The officer's earlier reassurance had vanished entirely.
"Step away from the gate. Right now."
She had to be steered away by the officer with a firm hand on her elbow as she was unmoving.
"We need you to walk over to the car with my partner."
She pulled her arm back, her voice dropping an octave. "Why? Am I under arrest?"
"Standard procedure for a potential crime scene, ma'am." the second officer said as he gestured her toward the car waiting curbside.
"Stay put" and he slammed the door shut.
©Britt H.
Thank you for reading this.
More about the person behind the writing in My Introductory Post
As most know, my health has worsened. Managing my condition & constant hospital commutes are exhausting my daily spoons. Writing is my lifeline—the one thing I can still do while managing treatments or being bedbound by a flare-up.
If you find value in my work, please consider buying me a coffee here. Your support is more vital & goes directly toward my medical expenses. Thank you.
Upvoted! Thank you for supporting witness @jswit.