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Twenty-Seven : Bedtime Stories

When I was seven, our dog, Nancy, ran away. It's a big deal to own a pet. You have to ask permission and prove that you have enough leisure time in your schedule to be able to fit in allotted time for animal care. Walking, cleaning, whatever. Generally if you are privileged enough to have someone like Mrs. Plum, you are privileged enough to be allowed a pet. Nancy was small enough to carry beneath an arm and had deliciously shaggy red fur. She was an added bonus to our little family and my mother adored her. Anyway, Nancy must have smelled something interesting and slipped through the gates during one of her late night toilet trips outside.

My mother's behaviour right now reminds me of when Nancy went missing. Mom flew into a flurry of panic, pacing and restless - she barely sat down until Nancy miraculously turned up, unharmed, three days later.

With a frantic look in her eyes, as though something extremely important is very wrong, mom urgently shoos Corin and I into her bedroom, dragging the thick metal door shut behind her.

"You mustn't tell anybody about this." She whispers, leaning back against the closed door. Appraising us with wide, dark eyes. "Alright, sweetheart?"

Corin and I stand awkwardly in the middle of the small windowless room, shuffling our feet as though caught breaking a rule. "Why not?" I ask.

"And what do you mean, this is the end?" Interjects Corin, running his hands through his hair, making it stick up even more. Mom sags against the door. Her frenzy deflates like a popped balloon. She shakes her head slowly. Some strands fall out of her bun.

"It's her, I just know it."

"Mom," I say, grabbing her upper arms, trying to spark some energy back into her. "You sound like a crazy person." She looks at me once more, blinks a few times. I can't read her eyes at all. This is so weird, she's my mother but she's different to my mother. Is Mindlinking to blame? Has it done this to her? And will it happen to me?

"You're right, Benna darling," she finally says, straightening up. "Sit down, both of you, time for a story before bed."

Corin and I catch each other's gaze quizzically but we perch on the edge of the single bed to humour her. The mattress is hard and thin, but the blanket is quality, feather-filled and soft beneath my fingertips. Mom takes a seat in a wooden chair beside the head of the bed. She must use it as a nightstand, because covering the surface is a few books and a hand-lamp. She places the items on the concrete floor before she sits.

"You mustn't tell anyone because, as you very well know, people are not always understanding about things that are new to them. Unfamiliar can immediately equal dangerous, even to those who have been ostracised because of the very same misunderstanding."

I'm chewing on my lip again. What she says makes sense, I guess, but it doesn't stop a large lump of disappointment weigh heavily in the pit of my stomach. I thought of anywhere in the world, here is where I could be accepted as me... but obviously I was wrong. When neither Corin nor I speak, my mother carries on. I rest my head on Corin's shoulder and listen.

"I want to tell you a story about two girls and a boy. Their names were Charla, Alexander, and Garnet. The three of them lived in the same city, and attended the same school. Charla was a quiet girl who had a quiet crush on the boy, Alexander Denman. Garnet Frenchwood was a studious, ambitious girl who also had more than a passing interest in Alexander. In fact, many of the girls at the school did. He was the classic combination: tall, dark, and handsome. Very serious, mature, smart... and heir to the presidency. Because of this, Alexander had to select his future partner very cautiously. Charla won out, obviously," my mother says, with a rather wry smile, "because she was beautiful, discreet, kept her opinions to herself and never caused any trouble. That is probably what Alexander loved most about Charla. Her obedience."