The Paintbrush

Repeat

"I miss her, I miss her so much! I tried talking to her to support her own problems but she ended up fixing mine. Never have I ever felt so guilty for leaving everything behind, even the one I love most."

"I told you, I don't want to have any sessions anymore!" I screamed, blasting my own eardrum whilst doing it. My phone, resting between my hot-headed face's ear and my fingers. I waited to hear her sigh once more and she replied, "I am willing to forget what happened the other day but it is recommended by the government that you complete at least 12 sessions with me. We are only half way through it and still you haven't opened the box."
"I don't care about the box, I don't care about the government! I don't want anything to do with you anymore!" I declared, hanging up with anger and sadness. It's been a while since I remembered that day in that therapist's room yet every memory crawls it's way back to that nightmare implanted in my mind. It was one I can not forget. Again I sat with my warm coffee enveloped by my fingers and unravelling the tension present in them. Glancing around the place I saw the vast majority of people with a partner or friend chatting away into their own world. Sometimes it's good to be a spectator rather than in the mess itself.
After finishing my refreshment, I headed back to what was called 'home'. Yet never did it ever feel like it. My feet squeaked inside, meeting flat with the floorboards and creating a noise every time a muscle was moved. The big black coat was hung behind the door and my keys were perfectly implanted on the side of my desk. However, one thing mismatched the ordinary items. My eyes glared right at it as I noticed it's imperfect yet perfect patterns engraved on the bronze glazed souvenir of this nightmare. My obsession and possession began to unravel through the calming of the coffee as I became intimidated by this inanimate object. I hate this. The anger boiled in bit by bit as my fingers began to resist the temptation of smashing that item until I was unaware of it's existence. Every little bit of form in the piece caused my nerves to pulse into attacking the insides of my body. I looked at it with disgust. None of this would've happened if I wasn't cursed by this box. This stupid box. In all honesty, I knew this effect of this box was the reason the box was given in the first place. But it became impossible to resist unravelling my anger into something that isn't even an organism. It's idle. It's nothing. But nothing can't cause this much heartache.
My eyes finally averted the box and I eventually turned to meet my kitchen, well, more specifically the fridge.
This was too much of a heartache. Each second that passed by blew up in my face as a reminder that everything fell apart. And now I'm refusing to do anything to make it up. My body engraved into the sofa as I bit into the leftovers from last night. And I thought; I thought long and hard about what I remembered about the night of the disappearance of my mother. The second before I was escorted back to my home without her smile to guide me. Everytime I left the front door on search of the mysterious disappearance of my mother and there's nothing I can do now. In fact, they didn't even let me see her body even thought I had all the right to see so.

"Ding dong"

I immediately shot back to reality of the now rented apartment I live in. There was no way I was going to stay in a house where memories haunted me wherever I stepped. I got up to answer the door, wrapping my fingers around the cold metallic handle and twisting so to reveal the last person I wanted to see.
"Please, just listen to me." Her voice hesitated. The tremble in her words threw confusion at my face so immensely that I couldn't help but feel the need to feel empathetic for whatever happened.
"I said I didn't want to go to anymore sessions. If you are here to convince me otherwise, you're wasting your time," I replied, finishing my sentence with closing the door until she stopped me once again.
"No that's not why I'm here! There are just some things you may need to... know about." Her eyes glared at the floor as she spoke insecurely. Yet no matter how hard I wanted to slam the door into her face, I widened the doors path and allowed her to step inside.

"What things are you on about?" I asked, settling into my sofa that I was recently grieving on.
"Some really important classified information about your past," she immediately replied, straightening her back and uncreasing her dress, "and your mother." Right when those words escaped her mouth, my face lit up with both curiosity and fear. With questions I wanted and didn't want answers filling my mind, I steadied myself with the information I was about to take in.
"Go on," I said, preparing for any darkness that would be revealed about me and my mother.
"Ok. Well firstly, you know your mother worked as a geologist right?" She questioned, tears reforming in her eyes.
"Course I did, I visited her everyday,"
"Well, she was working on a personal project which involved highly toxic materials that could kill any living thing within a couple meters radius. Her and her co-workers began their research straight away after they found out their boss found some arsenopyrite. Their main mission was.."
"Wait, I know about that. She had it with her on the day she was taken for interrogation." I interrupted, bubbling up with impatiency.
"No they knew about it months before the day she disappeared."
"...are you sure?"
"Definitely, because a week after their team left for the search for the familiar version of cinnabar."
"The deadliest toxic rock on Earth?" I questioned, recalling to the lies that already began adding up in my head of that hike in Scotland. It was never a hike now, was it? It was a dangerous trip to Spain to come in contact with the one thing this world is endangered by; but still used for its beautiful colour, scarlet.
"Yes, it was their main project. They wanted to discover similar elements deep with the layers of the volcanic matter. But then again, it became almost impossible when trying to hide it from you and surviving the limited supplies."
"How do you know about this?" I suddenly asked, waiting for a reasonable response into hearing my mother's backstory.
"I know people, and I needed to make a background check on you," was her response. The air around me choked me as I struggled to take in what she had just said. The realisation that my ex therapist claims to own the right to find out information that apparently is classified whilst I grieve over someone who maybe might not even be dead, "...and also I need to add. They got involved in some serious investigations with this program. Police where in search of the team because they seemed to be trespassing and stealing materials from other people, possibly using it in harmful ways that could put lives at risk."
And that's when it hit me. The officer knew her. She was in search for months until someone caught sight of her. She was most likely arrested and taken to jail for the crimes that were committed. But the again, something doesn't add up. Why did the doctors refuse when I wanted to see my mother after she had "died"? Why couldn't the police tell me where she was after they had taken her? But most importantly, why didn't she tell me?