Fantastic Tales: Volume 2

The Mist

Esmée is unhappy with her marriage and her life until one night when a strange mist appears and changes everything.

Fantasy Thriller

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'Sit down and eat your dinner,' Esmée ordered her younger son.

'But what about dad?' Ricky said, pouting as he sat back down on his chair.

Esmée wrinkled her nose as she watched Mathew pace outside, deep in quiet conversation on his phone. Another late call from work. He was getting those a lot lately, sometimes well into the night, increasingly on weekends, beyond reason. When she asked what exactly they were about, he dismissed it as some big project. Esmée snorted to herself. Did he think her a fool? She seethed as he gave a great, booming laugh. He hadn't laughed that way with her for years.

There was a creak and a scrape as Ricky stood up on the chair again, the chair wobbling beneath him. 'Dad!' he called.

'I said get down!' Esmée snarled, yanking down on his arm.

His arse hit the seat hard, and he jerked his arm away with a start, knocking his glass with his elbow and sending milk flying across the room. There was a crash as the glass shattered on the tiles.

'Goddamnit, Ricky!' Esmée cried. 'What is the matter with you? Why don't you ever listen!' The boy's blue eyes shone as he clutched at his arm. Esmée had pulled it too hard, she knew, and regretted it. 'Go to your room, I don't want to look at you.'

He slid off his seat, bursting into tears as he fled. The door slammed shut behind him. Her ten-year-old, Joshua, watched it all mutely and without expression, his face pale against his black hair as he poked his potato with his fork. Esmée dropped her head into her hands. Joshua was getting used to all the fighting now, and he shouldn't be. 

'What the hell's going on?' Mathew demanded, closing the door behind him. He was finally off the phone, roused by all the noise.

Esmée looked up, and rage like she'd never felt before coursed through her body. How dare he demand anything. She rose slowly from her seat.

It was the worst fight they had ever had. They shouted and cursed and screamed like they didn't have children or neighbours who might be listening. Accusations flew like the dishes and glasses and cutlery she threw across the room. By the end, bits of glass and ceramic littered the floor, Joshua had disappeared, white as a ghost, into his room, and there was the crash of the door slamming shut as Mathew left, no doubt to join his mistress.

Esmée's anger drained away, leaving a chasm of emptiness. Her ears rang in a silence too deep. Her angry tears dried into a crust on her cheeks. Was this it? Thirty-two and it was already over? They were supposed to grow old together.

Numbly, she took up her broom and began to sweep up the mess, then remembered her children. She put the broom aside and quietly opened Ricky's door. Her boy was a quivering ball under his blankets. When she approached, he rolled away with a sob and tucked himself against the wall. As for Joshua, he was apparently asleep, though he was far too still and breathing too quietly.

Esmée's shoulders sagged as she closed the door. She looked around her house, a home no longer, and fresh tears poured down her cheeks.

The next morning, Esmée dropped her sons off to school. Nobody spoke, nobody looked at each other and when she tried to say goodbye, they hurried away before she could make a sound, looking unbearably vulnerable in their uniforms.