A Fractured Fairytale

Chapter 2-Nightmares

Even though the radio was humming, Belle fell asleep on the journey home, her head resting on the side of her car seat, which was checkered a pale yellow and black, just like a bumblebee’s fuzzy fur. Her tiny hands were enclosed around her cuddly toy rabbit, which was wearing a butter yellow dress, laced in a beautiful pattern like a spider’s web around the collar. Belle was coincidently wearing a pale yellow too, a baby grow, and at this point I wasn’t sure whether the bunny or the child was cuter. The buttons down the front of Belle’s baby grow were engraved with a tiny ‘b’ which most probably advertised the make of the clothing, however I liked to think that the clothes were made especially for her. I leant over as Belle opened my eyes, “Hey little Bumblebee,” I chirped, “welcome to the family.”

The car was jolted back and fourth as we drove down our uneven street and into our gravel driveway, which led up to our cream house. The pastel green shutters bordering each window, opened outwards like two gates would. The two lights nailed each side of the door were blushing yellow and down from the lights hung two wooden hearts, by a teal ribbon, patterned pale green and white.

The day after Belle was born, the sun was still glowing, but spurts of rain started to make a regular occurrence throughout the day aswell, spouting down in sudden streams. Deep down inside me I felt sunny and rainy. I felt warm and gooey inside as I cradled the new addition to our family in my arms, but when I caught just a glimpse of mum’s face I felt an immediate rush of coldness run through my body. It was as if the rain trickling down the window and resting on the pain was acid rain, which was viciously burning my heart. It had only been a day and already I was doubting that I could keep the secret for any longer.  Whether I kept the secret or told dad what I knew, I would lose either way. Either way mummy would die. 

Bedtime was the worst; mum could not make it upstairs because of her disability, so it was normal for dad to be the one who read me the bedtime story. He read me fairytales, with characters with the perfect lives. The perfect life I would never get. Sometimes dad would tell stories which he had made up about mummy, me, Belle and himself and they would always finish with a happy ending, the happy ending I was sure I would never get. Every night I was petrified that it would be mummy’s last. That I would wake up and find her dead.

Everyday after I found out the news I barely lived out of fear. I would fall asleep to mum being lowered into the ground, her eyes glossed over with soil as they covered her. Her body still and her arms and legs like those of a doll, lifeless. Her hair hanging at the sides of her head, like string covering the head of a puppets. They would rest mum’s hands on her tummy, which would look as if her hands were clapped together like a prayer to be set free. Her eyes would still be open, watching, watching, watching and her lips scaly and chapped. In the nightmare the atmosphere would always be dark, a storm brewing. Stripping the surrounding bushes naked of their leaves the wind would howl with rage just like a wolf would. The moonlight was blinding as it was filtered into single rays of light by the trees. All the charcoal black clouds gathered, forming a giant wave of darkness, swallowing everything visible to me, as if it were an almighty god, bringing only one thing: death. The hailstones beat down on the windows of our house, determined to shatter the wall of glass, which was our wall of safety, before them. I could almost feel our house shaking in the relentless storm; it were as if earth had collided with another planet and slowly all the planets were falling from alignment. It were as if the chronological order was fractured and earth was spinning endlessly like a broken carousel.

I thought that if I opened my eyes the nightmare would end. That mum would not die at all. It turns out opening my eyes wouldn’t work. I was living in the nightmare.

Saying I awoke in sweat from all these dreams was an understatement. The scariest thing about this mess was that I was the only one who knew that mum was going to die within the next year. Belle would never hear the words ‘mummy is proud of you.’

Dad carried on with life, oblivious of what was to come, however I couldn’t escape the truth. I could rub away the words on paper, but I couldn’t erase this murderous illness. I thought about the day mum would have to go, all the time, but when it was written down like this on paper it seemed so much more real. The word death curdled round my mind, becoming more and more realistic as the days passed by.

Mum took action immediately, spending the majority of days with us and working nightshifts to earn spare money to treat us with. It all seemed risky and I was surprised that nobody became suspicious. Mum taught me how to bake a lot of delightful cakes, full with flavours, pleasing to the taste buds, but not so good for your teeth. When mum spied the sadness in my eyes she leaned in close to me and whispered, “It takes an astounding forty three facial muscles to frown, but only 17 to smile…” Mum also told me that one day I would make a lovely mummy and my lips curved upwards, but behind that smile, fear was concealed. I knew that that ‘day’ was drawing nearer and nearer. I wouldn’t be a mother to my own children, but my sister.

Whilst the cake was rising in the oven, mum would always let me lick the remaining mixture from the bowl. That was the one thing that on top of everything made me smile.

Now that I sit down and think about all this, it is not a dark, sad thing after all because if mum went to all of this trouble for us, it must mean she really did care.