Chapter Six
S y l v i a S w a n
The wind whips at my hair, knotting the perfect straight strands into hazardous tangles.
My pencil never stops moving. Each stroke is a confession of my soul, every line a carve of who she once was.
The image doesn’t form on its own, it's carved out of me, taking all that I have to give.
I try to stop the tears from hitting the paper, but nonetheless, they fall onto the page with delicate embrace and take my markings from me—forming something new and giving the image life.
The leaves hitting the ground or the creaking rocking chair barely sound in my ears, the static of existence, numb to my weeping mind. I try to find control in my hand because a steady shake resonates throughout.
I redraw the lines, erasing until it's perfectly imperfect to the state of insanity I’m witnessing.
The tips of my fingers turn a charcoal grey from my acrylic pencil, each smear enhancing her features.
The lips look nothing like hers or maybe it's the tears clouding my vision that's stopping me from seeing my mother properly.
Each stroke becomes a confession of my damnation and I hate that the stages of grief are attacking me.
No matter what I try to draw, her face appears and I get lost in her beautiful features.
She had these beautiful pale green eyes, ones you couldn’t forget.
Her lips were perfectly round with a pale scar across her bottom from when she was a kid.
I remember her telling me the story a million times for bedtime.
Her brother was always angry, throwing things during his tantrums, and one time he accidentally hit her across the lip with an old record.
My hand drops and the tears on my face seem to stop falling as her gaze and mine meet. I can feel the pain there, something so terrifyingly hungry my heart sinks even further. Why did I have to witness her soulless state? My hand that's holding the sketch book gets tighter, denting the pages.
The faint scent of lavender and something only she ever wore hits my nose and all the memories come crashing down on me.
It’s too much.
No more tears fall but my mind races, each flashback giving me whiplash and making my gut twist with an even greater pain. I feel sick to the point of throwing up, yet, I don’t move. I only stare harder.
The snap of the pencil makes my burning gaze turn to it. Only now do I hear the creaking of the old rocking chair and the sound of dancing leaves across our front porch.
Father's hammering also sounds through me, reminding me that I’m not alone in this. I’m never alone but the fear of losing him also corrupts my brain even more.
The gnawing feeling that he knows something festers in the back of my mind, like gum stuck on your shoe. Anger transforms my sadness and my head snaps towards the door.
Accidents don’t leave behind horrid scenes of my mother’s body covered in blood and cum. They used her, discarded her—like her life meant nothing.
I remember being up late at night and hearing my father’s heavy footsteps, coming and going out the door with a certain secrecy.
His hushed conversations with one of his friends in the neighborhood.
The way everyone called it an accident, never blinking an eye at the state of her body.
I’m young but not stupid, adults pretend things don’t exist and don’t bat an eye at the ones who lost.
Corruption clings to my father like his favorite cologne.
The way he changes the subject when she’s brought up.
Actions speak louder than words. They scream at me to solve her case, to push my father to a breaking point of admitting the truth of what happened that night but I don’t, I just draw.
Draw until my hand trembles and my heart races.
My hand starts working on its own accord again. Digging into the pages with a certain determination that the page starts to tear. I ignore the sharp point of the broken pencil against my palm or the sound of the ripping pages. I feel closer to her knowing she's right in front of me.
“Dear?” My fathers voice breaks my trance but I stay glued to the paper.
“Yeah?” There's a slight croak to my voice, giving away the fact I am crying. I cover the ripped pages of my sketch book with my arms and pull the pencil into the sleeve of my sweater.
“You ok?” I can hear his steps getting closer, but he stops a few inches away from me. “It’s getting cold. Want me to bring you a jacket?”
I calm my racing heart and push a few strands of hair behind my ear before I slightly turn to him.
“Yeah, I’m ok. A jacket would be great.” My smile is weak, but good enough for him and a smile grazes his soft cheeks.
“Good. Your cheeks are red and under your eyes too. Want me to bring you some hot tea?” His soft, wrinkled cheeks also glisten with a light blush from the biting wind and his flannel blows around him.
The care he holds has me wondering if he really knows how she died and my suspicions come to a pause.
I blink up at my father. The last person I have left on this earth.
Goosebumps litter my skin whether from the realization of how cold it is out here or from the mystery my father holds, I’m unsure.
I pull my sweater higher and drop my sketch pad on the left side of me, hiding the ripped pages from his sight.
I want the fact that he’s my father—my mothers husband, to be why he didn’t murder her or know who did.
The memories of my parents kissing by the fireplace as I dug through Christmas presents play on repeat in my head.
My father is no killer.
“A jacket is fine. I already have some tea.” My smile this time is real and the tears vanish into a nonexistent puddle in my head.
“Got it, be back in a jiffy.” A low chuckle leaves his throat as he spins around and heads back into the home. His pine scent lingers behind and warms me from the inside out.
I busy myself with flipping through the pages of my sketch book to a page I’d drawn yesterday before supper.
It’s a split image of the space in front of me.
The porch stairs leading down to the cobblestone driveway and spotted dirt across our front yard.
The trees and orange leaves that cover the frame of the drawing seem to dance with the autumn wind.
I close my book and stick the broken pencil into its spine. I cross my legs and tuck my hands under my thighs to keep them warm until my father comes back out.
I stare at our new home. Mr. Angel had a beautiful vision, I can only imagine how it looked when it was first built in the 1640s.
The windows are weathered but the seals are still intact, holding onto the structure with great steed.
I’m like the window; weathered, damaged, and resilient but strong enough to hold on until someone or something came to fix me.
“Here you are, my two sizes too small denim jacket. You can have it because I get weird looks when I wear it, but it reminds me of your mother.” A pang of sadness flashes in his gaze but disappears just as fast and a sad smile forms his lips. “The very first gift I got from her.”
“I’ll be sure to treasure it, thank you.” My expression is just as sad but I make it through for my father because he loved her the most.
I pull the blanket lined denim over my shoulders with shaky fingers. The tips are still grey but he doesn’t mind as it smears across his hand.
“Of course dear, if you need anything else don’t be afraid to ask. We’re in this together.” He nods and places a soft kiss on my forehead. His lips are warm and leave behind a sense of love that I feel I don’t deserve. Do I really believe he could be a murderer?
“Oh, I do want to go into town. I need some pencils and maybe more books.” I keep my tone even.
Lying is one thing, but lying to my father is like lying to God. It feels absolutely horrible. I’m not going to town, I’m going to Windale. To be more specific, our old home.
“Sure, be back by supper, ok? I’ve got your favorite in the crockpot.” He wiggles his brows suggestively and I smile.
“Ok.” I say with a small chuckle.
“I love you.” He walks to the front door with those last words and a small ‘love you’ leaves my lips as I watch him go.
I leave behind my sketch pad and grab Amos from the opposite wicker chair.
I walk down our long driveway after putting him into his carrier.
Instead of heading toward the main downtown, I skip over to the right, towards the train station.
My heart racing and my thoughts all over the place.
I never would've guessed I’d be in this position.
Leaving on my own to a place hours away.
I walk fast and keep my head down, away from any passing townies. When I begin to smell the burnt charcoal and steam, I walk even faster. I knew it was a good idea to look over the map yesterday. The walk here was much easier.
When I reach the booth for a ticket, a lady with striking blonde hair and blue eyes greets me.
Her smile is wide and exposes her white teeth to me.
I smile back and tell her the name of our old town.
She hands me a ticket after I give her three coins and I head to a bench to wait on the evening train.
I nervously collect myself as I wait. Amos purrs in his carrier, his brass eyes catching each person as they pass.
Lots of other people stand beside me, waiting for a train as well, maybe the same one I’m going on.
I pick at my black nails and rub the acrylic pencil on my fingers onto my black jeans.
No matter the crisp wind and air, my hands still began to clam up like it was a hot summer's day.
The rippling of the train drifts into ear shot and a speedy carriage flows past me. I stand up a bundle of nerves and bounce on my heels as I wait for it to come to a stop. People line up both in front of and behind me.