It was a bright sunny afternoon in Yorkshire. The air was laden with freshness of the upcoming spring and the flowers and birds whispered around having conversations, which were mute for the human world. The sky, having a blue tinge with occasional white clouds, made a perfect backdrop for a quintessential spring afternoon for the locals. Neat rows of well-maintained cottages with their full-blossomed compounds gave an aura of a classic postcard picture.
She was new to the place. Yet there was something that connected her to this place. Had she come here before? she wondered. The recesses of her mind, refused to pinpoint, why she felt connected to this place. A constant feeling of deja-vu, since she moved in here two months ago. The air seemed familiar. The road-side quaint cafes, the breeze, the roads, even the church compound, seemed to know her well. The most disturbing part for her, and the most surprising too, was that people knew her here. She hadn't been to Yorkshire, ever in her life. Never. No distant relatives, no family associated here. No one here should know me. I am new here.
The locals, referred to her as Madame Francesca. She didn't have the slightest idea of who she is. Who she was, or why is being referred to as this name. Locals, were astonished, when she drew up a blank face when people called her by this name. They questioned her courteously, "Madame, Do you not remember me? Your gardener?"one of them said, "Do you not recognise me, Madame,? I am your friend Betsey" exclaimed another. The one who referred to herself as Betsey was only 6 years old. How could a six year old be my friend, she frustratingly interrogated her mind. Why do people here know me? I am not Madame Francesca. She was greeted warmly everywhere she went, and locals regarded her with great respect.
Today, she was sitting on the park bench, pondering upon the weird behaviour the locals were showing, and coming to a dead-end with every question. This bench was here favourite place to come and sit and watch the time fly away. The bench over-looked the beach. Soft waves of the beach gave her sense of freedom. Freedom from questions. Freedom from her identity crisis.
The park bench was her gateway to answers.
Suddenly, with a gust of strong wind, a paper flew towards the bench. The wind, stopped blowing. It was just one sudden gust of wind that gave her the answer.
The paper was a newspaper clipping.
Newspaper clipping dated a year ago. It was titled "Mysterious Death of Madame Francesca" and read as follows,
"Yesterday, the city of Yorkshire, mourned the lost of the veteran mystic healer Madame Francesca. Her death, as claimed by, the autopsy experts, was due a strangulation on the neck and some deep knife marks in her back. She had been murdered brutally in the wee hours of the morning on the bench overlooking the sea in the central park. She was one of the most celebrated mystic healers in the entire Britain. Being a Yorkshire local since 50 years, the people loved her dearly. October 10th, the day she passed, is now declared a holiday every-year, according to the decision of the local council. Incidentally, she had died on the park bench in the central area when she was........."
The newspaper clipping, happened to be torn at this point. It was brown, soiled, and the handwriting had fainted for most part.
She was shocked. Fear, was an understatement. The bench. She was sitting on the same bench. There was no other park here. This was the central park bench. She was a dead person who is alive again, for these locals. Sweat chilled her spine, and she knew now. Her identity as a mystic healer, made the locals feel she was born again, and given a new form, a new body, a new age, and she had returned to them.
She read the date again. The newspaper clipping had a almost ineligible date at the top right corner.
The date: October 11, 1993
Today, was October 10, 1994. The same year as this Madame Francesca's death. OH NO! she screamed, the city was closed mourning her death. This can't be true. This has to be a dream. She is someone who died an year ago. She is sitting on the same bench.
She did not notice something dreadful, lost in her own thoughts finding and discerning her identity. The murderer had been lurking even today. The murdered was behind her. Her breathing stopped. The same murderer made his presence felt. The presence of another human being behind her was too evident now.
The setting sun over the horizon, now witnessed the same murder. The birds silent, and the wind almost vanished.
Still holding the newspaper clipping, she turned slowly to look behind.
What she saw, was anyone's guess. Before she could comprehend, it was too late.
The past had replayed itself. She was dead
The exact same time, the same place, and the same murderer.
The past had revisited her.
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The Last Day
Short Story"The Last Day" is a collection of short stories, which have a unique characteristic to it. All of them have a inanimate object in focus which weaves the character's storytelling into it. It's named "The Last Day" since it deals with the parting mome...
