"You didn't sleep well either, then."
Mum is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking chilled water from a glass. She motions with one finger underneath her eyes, indicating the dark circles. Instinctively I press my own fingers at the same place and she laughs gently.
"Have some water. Your skin will wake up soon."
I've given up questioning whether water is a scientific solution or not. It's my mother's remedy for everything, and it's never failed me yet. Warm water to cure unnecessary hunger, cold water to refresh tired minds and copious amounts of the liquid for sickness. My mother believes in it as if it is a life giving religion.
"Bad dream?" Mum questions as water drip drops out of the old kitchen tap. I watch my shaky reflection in the silver tap. Liar, it says to me.
"Something like that," I say. "Why couldn't you sleep?"
For a moment I'm struck with panic, thinking perhaps my mother saw the strange happening too. I turn to see her response and am relieved when she smiles and shrugs.
"I'm not sure. I feel very...lightheaded. Maybe I'm getting sick."
"Mm," I say absent-mindedly, thinking of the tall figure. "Are you alright?"
"Of course," she replies comfortably. "I'm sure it's nothing."
But when she stands to place her glass in the sink, her hands are shaking so hard the glass rattles as she puts it down. And later, when I put her to bed, her skin is so hot, I feel it may burn mine.
"I'm alright," she keeps saying, "just the flu, I'm sure."
But it's been a lifetime, and I've never seen my mother sick.
"Drink some water," I find myself telling her, "and you'll be better soon."
I spend the day at her bedside, mopping at her damp forehead, whispering stories about the stars and the night sky. The whole day, she holds my left hand and tells me she's glad I'm here, that I'm a good daughter and she's proud of me. But my mind only reads the words quickly before skipping off to the moonlit man I saw last night.
I want to open my mouth and say, "I saw something," but in times like this, even words in private areas can kill you. I remain silent while my mother's skin pales and her eyes become lined with red. Around us, day slips to night.
YOU ARE READING
When Wings Burn
Paranormal"Do you have a name?" "Harper. Just Harper." In a dangerously utilitarian world, Harper longs to experience the illegal. Whispers and hints of supernatural activity are everywhere, and yet one show of interest will mean immediate death. With no stor...
