An Answer: A Death

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Mum!” A door was slammed, a lock clicked and a pair of discarded Doc Martens thudded against a wooden floor, “I’m home!”

Morgan wound her earphones around her iPod and pushed it roughly into the pockets of her jeans. “Mum! What’s for dinner?” She asked, pushing open a door to her right.

The door swung open into a bedroom that looked decidedly lived in. The large room had white walls and a laminated floor. In the middle of the room a thick, white rug had been spread and against the farthest wall, facing the door, was a bed, with a single white nightstand on either side.

The bed was pretty: twists of arched, black iron curved to form the bedframe. Several printed pillows huddled against the headboard, looking on at the bed sheets that lay in a dishevelled heap with a remote control and a heavy duvet by the footboard.

On the wall across from the bed a wide TV had been mounted, and in the r right corner of the room, by a wide window, a white corner-desk nestled. Whilst in another life, with another owner, it may have belonged to a meticulous individual—a regular spaghetti in the box sort of person—in this life, its owner was young and careless. An Apple laptop sat amongst a clutter of papers, pens, books and pencils. A black swivel chair completed the study space.

Various strips of wall were lined with rows of black shelving, supporting slumped, dog-eared textbooks and knick knacks. In another corner a wardrobe door hung slightly open, exposing squashed colours on hangers.

Morgan walked in, relieving herself of her jacket and shoulder bag, and left the room, swinging the door shut behind her.

“Mum!” she said, grabbing the house phone from its base upon an ornate stand, “Should I order take out?” But only silence drifted back to her. This was ridiculous, where were her parents? They never left her alone on a school night—not without calling, or checking with her, “Dad!”

More silence. Morgan replaced the phone and strode down the corridor. She threw open the kitchen door, but there was nothing—no smell of chicken, or greens or whatever else her mum could possibly have prepared for dinner.

“Dad—Mum?! Why are you crying?” Morgan dropped to her knees in front of the sobbing woman. “Mum?” Neva Ridgewell held herself protectively, arms tightly clutching her thin legs. She had never seen her mum look so delicate.

In this awful, trembling, crying creature Morgan could only see glimpses of the woman who had tucked her in each night and shielded her in her arms against the monsters and tremors that lived in the night. Where was that strong woman who had taught her to love her independence? Where had she gone?

The air had been stung by something awful. Looking closer, Morgan could see strands of treacherous grey that had invaded her mum’s rich auburn and added to the illusion of age. “Mum?” said Morgan, her voice barely above a whisper, “what’s wrong?”

A loud sob shook Neva’s body and her crying increased in ferocity. Alarmed, but undeterred, Morgan reached for her shoulder, “Mum? Where’s—”

Angry eyes snapped up and flared, “He’s gone!” her eyes looked swollen and uncomfortable. Beneath them the brown-black of her mascara had trickled down and created dark patches. A fresh batch of tears pushed the mascara-patches further down, dissolving, in the process, the fierceness in Neva’s eyes.

Oh, what was the point? She leaned farther back against the oak wall unit, settling her eyes on a spot on the ceiling and letting her sobs engulf her.

It was strange really. A woman in her forties—clean and highly intelligent—who smelt of success and expensive perfume and power, sat crumpled, in her tailored blouse and skirt, on her kitchen floor while animal-like sobs wrenched her body. This woman sat crumpled while her teenage daughter hugged her and watched helplessly, awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say. Of course, Morgan could have said sorry, but that’s almost a joke in itself.