17
I can’t get the image out of my mind – Francesca lying beneath the earth, worms and beetles burrowing beneath her skin as it festered.
It’s claimed a place in my head, digging claws into my skull.
Sometimes, it feels as though they’re within my own skin, slinking into my veins, traveling to the deepest parts of me to feast.
Sweet Francesca, murdered. Strangled, carved and buried beneath the trees that once gave us solace. A pentagram. The sign of the Devil.
Francesca was determined to rebel against our parents’ religion, against God, but she didn’t believe in Satan either.
She wasn’t spiritual at all, despite her newfound love of dark aesthetics.
At her core, she was a simple girl, trying to find the place where she fit.
Trying to find her way in a world that was far vaster than we ever knew.
It doesn’t make any sense. Yet it won’t leave my mind as I breathe in the scent of peach conserve, the smell warming my insides with familiarity.
Mother had gone to the market this morning, basket in hand, returning with fresh fruit and herbs to make preserves for the congregation.
Each year we share handmade gifts between the community, celebrating the simple pleasures that God provides.
We don’t believe in material things – appliances and electronics – when Earth’s bounty is more than enough to sustain us.
Mother readied the berries and stone fruit in a pot above the hearth, wood cracking and spitting beneath the flame.
Heat filled the kitchen, making inside near unbearable as the sun peaks in the sky.
If only Christmas here fell in the winter, perhaps her incessant preparations would be tolerable, rather than suffocating.
I approach the bubbling pot, longing for a taste of the maple glazed fruit that simmers quietly, the room filled with its sugary scent.
It reminds me of childhood – of sneaking through the orchard across the creek and filling our pockets with stolen fruit, sitting beneath the trees as Francesca and I gorged ourselves with their sweet juice.
Of the way she laughed so freely, pressing the flesh to her lips gently.
She would tell me stories she made up – of what the world would be like beyond the community.
Of foods we’d never experienced, of cinema and books we could read.
Of the men we might meet, the adventures we might have.
I loved those days, just sitting with her as the summer breeze kissed our skin, a flutter beneath my ribs as she bathed in the sunlight.
It hurts to think about now, how that will never happen again.
How she’s gone, and my life has cracked right down the middle.
I lift a spoon, letting the thick conserve coat it, expecting sweetness, warmth, familiarity. I press it to my lips, aching for the taste – but there’s nothing. No tart juice across my tongue. No sugary tingle inside my cheeks.
I swallow with curious disappointment.
Everything has soured since Francesca disappeared.
Nothing is the same.
There’s an ache buried so deep in my bones that I fear I might collapse into dust if I stop moving for even a moment.
My joints throb with a dull, grinding pain.
There’s a hollow ache behind my eyes, and my chest feels so empty of air that every breath comes shallow and rasping, as though I’m suffocating, clawing for oxygen that refuses to fill my lungs.
Often, it feels as though I’m invisible. As though the summer Francesca disappeared, I too vanished into nothing, dissolved into the quiet spaces of the house where no one bothers to look.
Isabel will sit upon her bed, singing nursery rhymes that we enjoyed as children – the ones we went to sleep listening to, their quiet melody consuming our thoughts until we slipped into the dream realm.
I listen to her through the wall, my own room in darkness, her sobs encompassing me in a sadness that feels as thick as smoke.
It drifts through the plaster and timber, seeping into the corners of my room, clinging to my lungs.
It’s choking and invasive, impossible to ignore.
Sometimes her voice falters halfway through a verse and the silence that follows is worse than the crying – it stretches, thinning the air until she chokes the next line out, a sob stuttering her rhythm, like she’s remembering how to breathe.
As a child, the words felt like magic – like reverent promises that night would pass, that monsters waited only in stories, that morning always came.
Now it’s as though that childhood is all I long for.
The quiet innocence of an untarnished mind.
It was so much easier then, when questions didn’t claw at the inside of my skull.
As I grew older, it became harder to quiet the outside noise inside my head. Thoughts scurry endlessly, like mice trapped behind the walls. Fear, mostly. But wonder too. Wonder about what might lie beyond the trees. Wonder about the shape my life could take if I ever truly escaped them.
When Francesca’s brother left, the warmth of hope dared to creep into my soul. A glowing promise that maybe it was possible. Maybe leaving wasn’t some distant miracle meant only for stories whispered by the older girls. Maybe it wasn’t something forever beyond my grasp.
For weeks after, I imagined the road beyond the property line. Imagined the sound of tyres on gravel, the feeling of wind against my face, the world yawning and stretching wider and wider with each distance I ran.
Yet now, as the somber melody of my little sister’s singing infiltrates my bones, a marrow-deep chill accompanies it. A cold dread that makes me wonder whether everything truly is as it seems. Whether the stories we were told about the world outside were warnings, or carefully constructed lies.
Darkness blankets the house since the news of Francesca broke. The wildlife beyond the property line sleeps, while the owls grow restless in the trees, their distant calls echoing through the night like unanswered questions.
Isabel moves in her room as she shifts papers and rustles through her jewellery box.
Her door stands ajar enough for one eye to peek through into the dim light, so I carefully approach, my socked toes gently pressing to the old floorboards to not make my presence known.
She stands at the mirror, pressing careful fingers to her face, swiping balm across her lips, tracing dark lines around her eyes, adjusting the fall of her clothes as she studies her reflection. There’s a focus to her movements that feels strange at this hour, deliberate, almost ceremonial.
I move closer to the door, seeking a clearer view of what she’s doing. Curious, and suddenly uneasy, about why she would be awake like this while the moon hangs heavy above us.
A little romance for your reading break.
Browse romance novels on Lokepub.
Candles cover her vanity, their flames flickering softly in the dim room.
The light bends and shifts with every small movement she makes.
From where I stand, it’s hard to see clearly, but the tabletop is crowded with unfamiliar things.
Little bundles of herbs, dried flowers tied with thread, small objects whose shapes blur in the candlelight.
I lean closer, curious and concerned, and the floorboard creaks beneath me. I inhale sharply, stepping away from the light, returning to the shadows.
Isabel glances toward the doorway, eyes sharp, searching, before her brow creases and she approaches the door hesitantly.
Up close, something about her feels different – older. As though the heaviness of life has consumed her and pushed her over a threshold she wasn’t ready for.
Her hand grips the edge of the door, candlelight warping her features as it ghosts across her pale skin.
And then I see it – the hellebore flower.
Inked roughly into the skin between her breasts, its petals unmistakable.
The leaves vanish beneath the edge of her clothing for only a moment before she pulls the door closed, and I’m left standing in the darkened hall, slack-jawed, the echo of her lullaby still humming faintly through the walls.