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This Morning in Hope Springs

 
Joe Spivey's picture
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‘I remember the butterflies. I remember YOU.’

He looked at the words he had just written, the latest that now covered several pages of the old notebook he kept in his toolbox.

The first time he had heard her speak in a language she shouldn’t know, giving voice to memories she shouldn’t have, had been shortly after meeting her for that very first time in some makeshift camp many miles to the south west of South Burb.

Simple phrases of what seemed to be memories of feeding the colourful fish in a pond. Or running through falling cherry blossom. Childish things. Happy things.

But then, when she was tired from standing for hours covered in other people’s blood the phrases had become more personal, like she was talking to herself. Telling herself that this woman was going to bleed out because the knife wounds were just too many. This boy was going to die because the mutated liver that was supposed to keep him alive was, in fact, poisoning him.

Of course, she never remembered any of what she said, or even that she had said it. In fact, she would become quite cross if anyone even brought it up. So, he and the attending nurse would just exchange a glance or a shrug, and the nurse would ignore the strange words coming out of her boss’s mouth. He, however, couldn’t do that because he understood what she was saying… And it was his job to record ‘anything unusual’.

Now, after the birth of their son, what had just been ‘unusual’ before had become disturbing. Twice now she had spoken directly to him, something that had never happened in all those years he had been with her.

The first time she had been sitting at the breakfast table in her mother’s kitchen, feeding the baby while golden morning sunlight filled the window. She had lifted her head, the happy smile dying on her lips, and looked directly at him.

‘You see her, but you watch me. I can feel you watching me.’

Then the smile had returned and she had gone back to feeding their son, totally oblivious to having said anything at all.

He hadn’t reported it. He should have. It was exactly what he had been told to look for. But he hadn’t. And now this.

So, he looked at the words for a long time before closing the notebook and burying it back under the tools. Then he locked the toolbox and put it back up on that high shelf she couldn’t reach.

 

Comments

Hyle Troy's picture

(( Told you...  Lightbulb Bob and his crowd give me the wiliies... 

I would rather die peacefully in my sleep, like Grandad, than screaming, like his passengers

Joe Spivey's picture

((Hehe... Good, that's what they're supposed to do. Laughing

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Joe Spivey's picture

((Apologies to anyone who has just read that and is now going "Whaaaaat the Fuuuuu...?" I think only Hyle will know. It's just keeping an apparently minor thing alive in the bigger picture.

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Lance Striker's picture

(( *waits for Brown to rear her head in a slightly more malicious game of whack-a-mole* I think I know the broader side of what's going on here, but not the minutiae. Creepy as hell though, so good job.

Lonely are the brave...



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