Incarcerator

Chapter Three

Ellie

The door crashes open. Or at least, that's what it sounds like to Ellie's sensitive ears. Her neck twists to look over the couch, the sound of her nature documentary dwindling. The door slams shut and a familiar figure strides into the house, straight to the kitchen. Ellie feels a twinge of relief at the sight of her mother, dressed in navy blue scrubs. Who else would it be?

"Hi hon," her mother says without looking at her, heading straight to the kitchen and turning on the kettle. Her shoulder-length wavy, brown hair whipping about as she searches the cupboards for a cup.

Ellie's neck strains a little, but she keeps watching. "Hi Mom." Her nature documentary doesn't feel so important or interesting anymore.

The kettle begins to steam loudly. The clunk of her mother's cup on the counter is louder. "How was your day at school?" she asks, routinely, even though she already knows the answer.

"Good," Ellie answers, her small voice sounding unsure. Is she mad? "How was your day, Mom?" She pauses the TV and swivels towards her now, folding her arms on the couch and propping her chin ontop.

Her thin, delicate fingers toss a tea bag into the cup, and she grabs the quieting kettle. "It was all right," she replies, keeping her tone light.

Ellie pulls her lips in. Everything about her Mom was light, except for the heavy bags beneath her eyes. She worries if she's sleeping and eating enough. She's just stressed, Ellie reminds herself, since that's what her Mom will always say. Busy and tired with work.

The silence of the house settles in, even with their presence. Each hallway and room is too big, the echoes of grief filling every one. Ellie shifts her gaze from her mother to some more photos along the wide, open door frame to the kitchen. A jagged, polished piece of wood is in the centre of them, with the black initials Linzy & Lee. Her Dad gifted that to her Mom the day after they married - Ellie remembers. She also remembers how Dad called Mom Linzy instead of Linda, which was her actual name. Everyone in the neighbourhood called her Linzy. Neighbours would come over for dinner, and so would their kids. Ellie remembers playing with them. Not anymore, she thinks glumly. I haven't played with anyone since Daddy died. And no one calls her Mom Linzy anymore. No one comes over, either.

It's like their whole life stopped.

Ellie's Mom turns around, nursing her cup of tea since she's trying to stop relying on coffee. "I have to do a late shift tonight," she says, staring at the wide, doe-like eyes of her daughter. Except they're a shiny gray-blue, anything but a mucky brown. It hurts looking at them, since they're so close to Lee's. His had more gray than blue, glazed over and fading as the years went by.

Ellie's lips reappear, plump and pink. "Okay," she says, as chirpily and nonchalantly as she can.

But Linda hears the disappointment in the softness of her voice. "I'm sorry, hon," she says sincerely, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup. "It should be my last late shift this week." Unlikely though. A part of her wants it to be unlikely, since the silence of the house is like a knife to the heart, piercing and twisting deep into the flesh of it. She can't stand to be home, to look at the face of her daughter that she keeps letting down. I should be stronger, she thinks, taking another long sip of her too sugary tea. She'll need the kick.

"When will you be back?" I'll be home alone again, Ellie suspects. All night.

Linda winces at the too sweet and innocent words - and the hotness of her tea. "I'm not sure," she replies, honestly, turning away and setting down her cup. She spins back to face her daughter. "Late. I'll make some dinner now and keep it in the fridge for you. Remember not to snack too much and do any homework you have."

Ellie blinks and nods slowly. "Okay," she agrees, though she doesn't have much of a choice. "I'll go do my homework now." She climbs off the couch and heads upstairs. I want to colour in later, she thinks to herself, and work on my vision board. Her father used to do them, except with cases. He'd pin and string photos together. He'd always keep it in his office, and he'd always cover it up with a small sheet so Ellie wouldn't see. But she did see it - once, at least.

She remembered waking up in the middle of the night with a sore throat. She went to get water and walked past his office in the upstairs hallway. He was hunched over his desk in a dim white light, staring at his case board. She stopped and stared, even though she wasn't meant to - he wasn't meant to be up late, either. But he was, and she remembered seeing photos of bodies on the board. Dead ones.

Ellie remembered feeling bad for the victims and worried for her father. She hoped he wouldn't end up like them. Now she feels bad for him, too. Worse.