The Impact

EPILOGUE

NINE YEARS LATER

~*~

________________________________________

EPILOGUE

________________________________________

EVIE

I step out of the shower and plug in the drier, the warm air from the drier hits my scalp and I momentarily close my eyes. The edges of my long raven colored hair prickle my face. After I am content with the state of my hair, I unplug the drier and put it back into my drawer. After giving myself one last look in the mirror I walk out of my room. I live in an apartment, which pretty much means that I have to fix my schedule according to that off my neighbors', most of them being elderly couples that live alone and usually get visited by their grandchildren. I open my front door and catch the sight of Mrs. Smith dusting off her door mat. I give her a smile and greet her with a Good Morning.

'Good Morning, Evie' she says, smiling 'Off for work?'

'Yes, Mrs. Smith. It's getting kind of hectic but at least it keeps me in shape' I reply, locking My door behind me, 'Have a good day, Mrs. Smith' I shout over my shoulder and hear a reply with a 'you too'. After all these years, one would have thought that I might have gotten used to the fact that Mrs. Smith was the only elderly in the apartment that had never been visited by her grandchildren. I found that weird and I had many times tried to talk to her about her family, we knew that her husband had died and year ago, right after they moved here and she had insisted on everybody calling her Mrs. Smith. I had never also heard her talk about any of her children and that made me think that maybe she didn't have any but the way that tears would glisten in her eyes whenever vacations came near and the laughter would be heard on every step of the stairs, the possibilities of what her past was like; were endless. Being an eighteen year old, working as an editor in a magazine I wasn't too keen on finding out. Because what with the amount of stories I had to go through every day, I knew that we could only imagine worst case scenario. Although there were many things to her that could interest anybody, mainly the way how, when every single elderly in the apartments refused to be happy about the appearance of teenagers, she seemed to take much more interest in them. I still remember when she was once asked why she liked teenagers so much and why she didn't find them rude or annoying like the others did. She had smiled and replied with 'I have seen young children live their lives, it makes me curious as to how a teenager would go about, mostly after sixteen' and then the smile from her face and faded and she had gotten up and went away. Living only opposite to her, I hadn't failed to notice the sound of sobbing coming from the opposite door but I had ignored it, thinking she might not appreciate me poking into her personal matters. Mrs. Smith didn't really talk to anybody, however she had been visited only twice in the past two years by a lady her age. I didn't know her name but she seemed to have quite the same aura around her that Mrs. Smith did. Once however she had brought her daughter along, who looked than me. This daughter however, was a shy soul or maybe she just didn't feel like talking. Almost the whole time during the five hour long visit, I would watch her sing while leaning over the balcony, a song that I had never heard before. Her voice, however, had been so angelic that I had found myself singing the same lyrics for a week after she had left. I still didn't know who she was singing it for when she sang about lakes, cemeteries, paper boats, blades and to my utter surprise, ceiling fans.

Today must have been a special day because when returning from work, I was greeted my Mrs. Smith, inviting me over to her house for the evening tea. I of course, accepted the invitation though I didn't know what to expect. That evening when I knocked at her door, I hadn't expected to see her living room, completely re designed as I had seen it the last time I had a peek inside. The living room was something out of photographer's studio and the walls were covered with pictures, all of the same girl. Brunette hair, down to the back and dark brown eyes; a thin, delicate face and a cheery smile. I noticed, however, that another girl, who looked oddly like the one that had been singing, had her fair share of photographs on the walls.