𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢┃ Charles Leclerc┃

Chapter Twenty Four - The Little Secret

My mother was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was the perfect Middle Eastern beauty, with an oval face, full and symmetrical, and elevated, thick, arched eyebrows. Her eyes were almond-shaped, her nose straight, her cheeks full and lateral. Full lips; well-defined jawline; prominent, pointed chin. The list went on. She was flawless.

And she was sat right before me.

"Go get the popcorn, chick. Cupboard next to the fridge, top shelf." She smiled at me as she fiddled with the remote, pointing it at the TV screen.

I grinned as I watched her. "Which one are you putting on?" My voice grew louder as I wandered into the family kitchen, reaching for the top shelf of that cupboard. "Love Actually? Four Weddings and a Funeral? Notting Hill?"

"You would be wrong, my dear!" Her voice echoed over the sound of the Butterkist bag being ripped open in my hands. As I entered the room, the smile on her face grew into her most devious smirk as her fingers tapped together. "The best Hugh Grant chick flick of all... Bridget Jones's Diary!"

I threw myself on the sofa beside my mother, squeezing my arm around her shoulders. She knew it was my favourite. In fact, she knew that watching Hugh Grant chick flicks with her was my favourite thing to do. The familiar opening chords of the soundtrack enveloping me in a warm embrace.

Mum had always had a soft spot for romantic comedies, especially those featuring Hugh Grant. There was something about his bumbling charm and endearing awkwardness that never failed to make her laugh. We'd spend hours lost in the world of love, laughter, and happy endings – a welcome escape from the complexities of reality.

But it wasn't just about the movies themselves; it was about the moments we shared – the laughter that echoed through the room, the tears we shed during the emotional scenes, and the quiet conversations that followed as the credits rolled.

"Remember when we watched this for the first time, Mum?" I whispered, my voice catching with emotion. "You said Hugh Grant was your favorite, and I couldn't help but agree."

As the movie reached its heartwarming conclusion, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I turned my head to my mother, preparing to see her wiping her tearful eyes as she laughed away, but she wasn't there. Her shoulder was no longer touching mine, and the scent of her perfume was no longer filling my nostrils.

The sofa was empty. The room was empty. The house was empty.

I frowned, looking around myself. Everything was the same as it had been; the movie credits rolling on the screen, the curtains closed together to block out the sun, most of the cushions of my childhood strewn across the carpet. But, no mum. 
Quick images started to flash before my eyes like the pages of a flip book: my dad ramming his knee into the wooden door of the bathroom, my sister obliviously unaware downstairs, the silence of my mother, the shower water running. Then her body, on the floor. Cold. Mottled. Blue.

Panting, I jackknifed into a sitting position. A thick layer of sweat covered my body. As my vision adjusted to the dark, dread built inside me at the sight of unfamiliar surroundings. I kicked the covers off and stepped onto the cold, hard floor. For a moment, I was confused because my room didn't have a wooden floor. Where was the carpet?

I searched in the dark for the light switch, and when I flipped it on, the mural on the walls lit up around me. The shock of reality hit me so hard my knees buckled and I crumbled to the ground in a heap. I wasn't at my family home in Surrey. I was in Canada, in some hotel that I didn't recognise.

It was the nightmare that had been keeping me up since the day my mother died. The images were still soaring through my mind. Stop! I screamed to myself and squeezed my eyes shut. Just stop thinking about it.