𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫 (1)

eleven

It felt so wrong to dress Rosie in black. A five-year-old should never wear black. I let her wear her shiny red shoes to make up for the bleakness of her black dress. With my scarlet shoes, we were almost matching. I had repainted my nails so that they were no longer chipped and I had fastened my hair into a neat bun, smoothing down any stray hairs. I was ready. Except for the fact that I was not.

We were late meeting Annalise at the church so I gathered my bag and took Rosie's hand in mine, "Ready, monkey?"

She nodded and looked at her shoes, she tapped them together and said, "No place like home."

I smiled at the reference and tapped my own shoes together, making her giggle. "No place like home," I agreed.

I opened the front door and started when I saw Spencer standing there, his arm outstretched and ready to ring the doorbell. "Hi," he said shyly.

He was dressed formally in what I assumed was the only black suit he owned. He had attempted (and failed) to tame his wild hair and he smelled of lemons.

"Hi," I stammered, "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you might like some company."

"How did you know where I lived?"

He grinned, "A little bird told me."
...

Everything about the church was grey, from the ominous grey gravestones to the grey cobbled path and the grey walls of the church. The pews were not exempt, though their grey was the consequence of old age. I had been once before but people asked too many questions about the presence of the ring on my finger and the absence of a husband at my side.

The service felt surreal. Everything around me felt normal and that felt wrong. I gripped Spencer's hand tightly, grateful that he had remembered and made the effort. He offered me small smiles but his palm felt clammy in my own and his leg bounced agitatedly. I could tell he was no stranger to funerals and I made a mental note to ask him about it one day. I read 'The laughing heart' by 'Charles Bukowski' because it is easier to recite somebody else's words than to try to figure out what you want to say. Rosie sat on the floor and drew, bored of the sermon already, and I couldn't say that I blamed her. As the vicar droned on, perhaps trying to personify death itself, part of me wished for the excuse of youth that would allow me to join her on the floor and block out dull words with coloured pencils.

Throughout the sermon, I got the feeling that I was being watched. I shivered, shaking it off.

You're just being paranoid, Adeline.

But it did not go away. I whipped around in my seat, quick enough to glimpse the hooded figure dart away from the doorway. My stomach lurched.

It's not paranoia if you're right.

"Will you watch Rosie?" I whispered to Spencer who nodded without asking why.

Ignoring a poorly disguised disapproving glance from the Vicar, I slipped out of the pew and hurried out of the doors. At the entrance, I looked left then right and thought I saw a glimpse of movement disappearing around the corner on my left.

I gritted my teeth, making up my mind, I went right and ran around the church —ducking under the windows that I passed.

I peeked around the next corner and I saw him huddled against the wall, with his back to me. I had prepared for this moment.

Silently, I stole my way towards him but, when I was inches from him, a twig snapped under my heel. His whole body tensed but, before he could spin around, I  kicked him hard with the toe of my heel in the back of his knees —one after the other. Then, grabbing both of his wrists in a swift calculated movement, I slammed him into the ground, "Who the hell are you?"