Consequences #16 — Bobbie
Even in the darkness, they wait for me. These memories spring up like monsters, baiting and teasing with a dirty laugh. Not always, though — sometimes they are soft and warm, like a nest. These ones provide sanctuary from the world.
One of them is strong, it returns night after night.
I am sitting at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing my eyes. I think I’ve been asleep, but I can’t say for how long. The carpet is a dirty beige — my shoes (too small … children’s shoes) are muddy, and the laces trail behind my feet. There is a mirror on the wall, and it shows me my face; chubby, tired and innocent, maybe a few years old.
This is a nice feeling; I am at home, I am protected. I scratch my head, and call for somebody. Nobody comes except the dog, who sniffs my feet and looks at me with brown eyes and decides to go somewhere else.
I am just about to call again when I see somebody through the glass of the door at the end of the passage; a familiar shape. It’s my dad. He puts the key in the lock very, very slowly. His shoulders are slumped, his head low.
He comes through the door, and I can see his eyes are red and sore. He looks at me, looks away again.
“It’s late,” he says. His voice is cracked and dry, like he’s been in the desert. “You’d better go to bed.”
He is tired. I ask him where the others are. Where is mum? Where is Jodie?
“She’s gone,” he whispers. “You’d better go to bed.”
He takes my head in his hands and holds it delicately. His fingers, usually rough and hard, are suddenly different; they hold me like I’ll break if he squeezes too hard. His body shakes with tremors of grief, and I hold him until I fall asleep again.
Some of these memories touch me like I’m remembering them for the first time; even though they’ve been on repeat for years, keeping me awake. These ones, the ones that won’t leave me, are the worst of all; they are warm and inviting and draw me in, but then turn cold and stiff and leave me feeling nauseous and alone.
I don’t think they’ll ever go.