Fragmented

Chapter One

A slow breathing filled the air. Deep, calm exhalations. She was consumed by an inner serenity. She was floating. Felt the air embrace her skin. Every inch felt the touch of a soft breath. Nothing could reach her. She was at peace.

Then a sudden cold engulfed Agnes and she contracted her limbs into a foetal position. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her chest to avoid the warmth escaping her body.

The translucent colour scheme of uninterrupted, carefree existence vaporised from her mind like dew in sunlight. In its place were rugged bricks plummeting, locking out her peace of mind.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not vanish back into the quietude.

Agnes' guard was fiercely penetrated by her mother's irritating voice. She realised then, that her sanctuary had been nothing but her imagination. A wonderful dream in the middle of a vicious chaos.

Her immediate response was to bury her head deeper into the pillow and try to sink into her mattress. Perhaps it would even swallow her whole?

"Agnes, I'm not telling you again, you have to get up," her mother continued. "Now."

Agnes could not care less about her mother's demands. It had not been her idea to move, much less to a ramshackle old house that would take years to restore. It had been her mother's great enthusiasm for the idyllic Tyrol and her father's knack for saying yes to every job offer he got that had landed them in such a mess. She did not see how their current distress had anything to do with her.

"We have a much- lot to do, er, so you need to get up now. Are you coming?" The way she stumbled through her words made Agnes even more sluggish. Somehow, people telling her to do something always made her want to do the exact opposite. If her mother had not barged in on her, she might have woken peacefully from her haven and been able to see some sort of positive aspect in the whole situation. If she pinched her eyes. Really tight... Or perhaps she should just keep them closed.

At breakfast, Agnes' parents were absorbed in the newspapers they had brought from home. How three-days-old news from another country could be relevant to them now was a mystery to her.

"So what's the plan for today?" She asked, less than keen on hearing the answer.

Her father was quick to address his schedule; pipes needed fixing so they could have running water instead of the greenish slime that came out of the dirty taps. Then he was going to repair the hole in the roof and tear down the wall that was covered in filthy mould in the hall.

He continued to add improvements here and there before encouraging Agnes to collect the apples from the tree outside the house and mow the lawn.

For some reason, the previous owners had left an outhouse full of gardening equipment and tools. Her father was thankful to the heavens for it, but Agnes found it to be more suspicious and a bit alarming. Who knew how many bodies could have been killed with those tools and buried right under that apple tree her father fancied so much?

Her parents would blame it on her "excessive imagination caused by watching too many TV shows". Agnes could be tempted to call it common sense.

"Oh come on. You can't be serious. You want me to pick up those rotten things?" Agnes was staring in disbelief at her father as if he had just told her to eat gravel.

"Yes! They're great apples. You don't want to waste them just because they're a bit wrinkly. You could make apple juice and mash of them! Then we'll freeze it down and they'll last all winter! Nothing tastes as good as home-grown food." Agnes answered with a wince at the word "home".