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feitclub · 4 years

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In The Cards

It all started with James Bond, the arbiter of worldliness and all things cool when I was just a kid stuck in suburbia. The movies were frequently shown on TV and I made it a point to watch them all over and over again. One of my early favorites was Live and Let Die: the theme song kicked ass, it was Roger Moore's first film so he would never look more handsome, and the movie was full of straight-up magic. The bad guys have a fortune teller on their side, and she can seemingly see everything James Bond will do, even from a great distance. The key to her abilities, aside from her being a virgin (which Bond *ahem* takes care of) was her use of tarot cards. Drawing randomly from this special deck of cards, she could literally see the past, the present, and the future.

I had never heard of tarot cards before but I knew I wanted them. I could not have been older than 12.

When I got my hands on a deck, likely from a book store at the mall, there was an instant level of disappointment. The tarot cards in the Live and Let Die had a very specific look to them, and I had presumed that was just how all tarot cards would look. The deck which I bought (received? I don't remember if my parents were in on this) looked different. All the cards were there, but the art I had expected was not. The biggest difference that stood out to me was the "Death" card: in Live and Let Die that card has a super badass drawing of Death-incarnate wearing a suit of armor while riding a Pale Horse as all manner of human beings knelt or simply fell before him. In my deck, Death looked like a cartoon skeleton without clothes or a horse as he literally reaped the grass with a scythe. I am not here to judge aesthetics, but if you see something in a movie and you end up buying something else, especially as a kid, that's not going to sit right.

(I have tried to use modern search engine tools to discover what kind of deck I had: it was easy to figure out that Live and Let Die used a kind of Rider-Waite-Smith deck, but I think I might have ended up with a variant on a Marseilles deck - exactly which variant, I could not say)

Artistically it was a let down but the appeal of the tarot cards only increased as I learned more about them. First, I discovered that the deck was huge with 78 different cards: the big-picture cards that were featured in the film with names like "The Lovers" and "The Fool" were part of the Major Arcana, but there was also a full set of Minor Arcana which resembled playing cards: four suits, lots of numbers, and several face cards. Secondly, every card had two different "readings," depending on which direction the card faced when drawn.

78 cards, all with two different meanings, meant memorization. As a kid, I was all about memorization. In elementary school my friend Sasha and I tried to memorize the Periodic Table and I think we made it to the lanthanides. When I discovered the joy of watching professional sports, I made a point of memorizing all the teams - by division - in all four major sports leagues. Then I started memorizing the championship winners (and the runners-up) of each major sports league for the last ten years...then the last 20. These tarot cards were going to be my new thing, I could feel it.

I started carrying the cards with me wherever I went. As a kid in school this was easy since I always had a backpack on so the size of the cards meant nothing. Sasha and I (we had watched Live and Let Die together, so this became a team obsession) each had our own deck and we both would take turns drawing cards and looking them up in the little booklet that came in the box. I can remember taking them with us on a school trip to Boston and when we weren't in awe of the historical sights (do I need to tell you we were both nerds?) we kept up our tarot studies while walking around town. On one occasion, just as we drew a card and the booklet said it meant "danger," a car honked its horn at us. We were walking in the middle of the street! Clearly, the magic was real.

The tiny booklet also included a recommended layout when "reading" the cards. The lady in the movie just turned them over one at a time and everything made sense to her, but instead these instructions had us laying out ten different cards in a pattern where each card has a different relationship to the reader. Today I can tell you this pattern is called a "celtic cross" and it is only one of many, many shapes and patterns that can be used, but preteen me did not have that information. I had clear directions: to read the cards I had to flip over ten of them and explain them all.

Before I knew it, before either of us were really ready to be doing anything like this, I remember both of us became tarot card readers at our synagogue for a Purim festival. At the time I didn't think anything was weird, but in hindsight I am impressed that no one raised an objection to kids bringing such a thing into the synagogue so we could be fortune tellers. I should say that we were members of a Reform Temple and I cannot recall ever hearing words like "blasphemy" or "occult" used by our rabbi or anyone else in authority; it stood in contrast to all those self-described Christians I would see on TV who were mad about evolution being taught in schools, talking animals existing as characters in children's books, or anything else we might read in a Chick Tract (which come to think of it, we also discovered around this time while riding Metro-North trains into New York City).

My tarot reading habit did not last; Sasha and I had a falling out of sorts and other things just became more important than these strange cards. My deck sat on a shelf in my room for years until I moved out of my childhood home. I cannot say for certain but it more than likely did not leave with me. But my curiosity surrounding the tarot would linger in my mind and resurface soon enough just as my next big obsession would come along and reveal itself to be tarot-adjacent: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.

When I discovered JoJo via a fan-subtitled bootleg VHS in the late 1990s, I had no idea the six episodes of anime I just saw covered only one small part of an ongoing (to this day!) manga. The story, as presented on the tape, started in the middle of the action. A lot of it did not make sense, but I latched onto one element right away: every character had superpowers which were embodied - literally - in a spiritual version of themselves on screen and all these alter-egos had tarot-related names: Star Platinum. Hierophant Green. THE WORLD. There wasn't much connection between the card names and the powers they possessed, but it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. If I had still owned a deck I might have started imagining other powers for the other cards not shown on screen (not knowing that they were all represented in some fashion in the original manga).

Leap forward another - gosh, twenty years? - and my tarot fascination never really went away. When I see a Kickstarter or an Etsy page for a new take on tarot cards, I often take a peek at what ideas are on display. A lot of them are just...porn-y. Some are cute. But I'm old(er) now, I don't have the raw enthusiasm I did when I was in 7th grade and the prospect of magic playing cards just made perfect sense. I see daily horoscopes on Japanese TV which I recognize aren't "real," how could I scoff at one kind of fortune telling and then pick up a deck of tarot cards?

Except...who cares if it's "real." What does it matter if these cards are, ultimately, a random assortment of quality art? It's been three entire decades since I first saw them and I'm still deeply intrigued. Part of being old(er) is coming to terms with your own tastes and biases; I no longer need to apologize or feel shame for liking old pop songs or macho action movies and if I've always had a feeling that tarot cards are cool, that feeling is correct.

There's also the feeling that I know so little about tarot cards that I cannot possibly pass judgement on people who use them. I recently started testing a Body Positivity mobile app that uses tarot cards as a means to spark self-reflection and, well, body positivity. The tarot cards in the app are not "real," they're not even physical. They're just drawings on a screen. But the drawings are nice, and if flipping a virtual card over can have a real impact on my own mind, who's to say what flipping real cards over could do?

Even though I felt a need to write all this down, I'm not actually seeking permission here. I already made up my mind and bought a brand-new deck of tarot cards. It's here, next to me. I’ve opened them. I try to draw a few cards whenever I have a chance, but I don't know where this reignited interest will take me. Will I start memorizing them all, again? Will I have another car-honking-its-horn-at-me moment? Maybe I'll just enjoy them aesthetically (they are very nice-looking if I may say so). I don't know what will come next any more than these cards do, but I know I like having them here and I want to know more. At the very least, tarot cards have already taught me an important lesson: I know better than to try and read them while walking in the middle of the road.

---- I shared this story with my Patreon supporters before posting it publicly. Want to help me write more things? Join today: patreon.com/feitclub Ko-fi works too: ko-fi.com/feitclub

#writing #tarot cards #1980s #jojo's bizarre adventure #memories

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talesfromtheindigoghost · 5 years

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Good Intentions: Entry 3

Do you want to know the funniest part of all of this?

I’ve actually tried going to therapy to get help processing all of this. The more I think about it, the less traumatic and bizarre it sounds but that pretense just falls to pieces once I start talking about it out loud. That’s kind of the point of getting help, though, isn’t it?

The view from my patio isn’t as dazzling or profound as what I assume is heaven but I still love to watch the sun rise over the woods and bring its light and warmth to whatever might be wandering around the yard. Squirrels, raccoons, possums… plenty of feral cats, sometimes even deer, if I’m really lucky.

A fat, orange tabby cautiously peeks her head out from the window of the modest shed I helped build a few years back. I watched her squeeze through, despite it barely being ajar, amazed at how her drooping belly seems to pour out like dough out of a can of biscuits. I can’t help but smile as she turned and lets out a noise and, one by one, her four children slink out of the window and follow her to the food and water I’ve made a habit of leaving out every day.

I’ve done this since as long as I can remember, for as long as stray cats have wandered near. One of the times I had to go through all of that, the thing that used to be me managed to wander into the garage before I got back. That’s where I used to leave the food and water for the animals. I think seeing what it had done to that poor little kitten really messed with me, and what really pushed me into giving therapy a chance.

She was nice, and to be honest, I still consider going back but I always got the feeling she thought I was making everything up. To be fair, of course, I wouldn’t believe it either. Hell, I go through it, and I hardly believe any of it is real. Maybe the funniest part wasn’t that I went to therapy, but that I told the truth when I did.

Sort of.

I wondered to myself; how do you really explain this to someone? How could I possibly convey the sensation of dying to someone who’s never died before? In what way could I ever tell someone that by that point in my life I had already successfully killed myself more than thirty times?

The answer, it turns out, was a lot easier than I expected. I told the truth, but dressed it up as… creativity, for lack of a better term. My deaths became attempts, my journeys became colorful metaphors for how I was feeling. Weird how just being honest can be such a relief sometimes.

The things that used to be me became reflections.

She had explained to me, after I had broken down and confessed how guilty I felt over the death of that kitten, that it hadn’t been my fault at all. That there was no way I could have possibly known that the kitten was sleeping under the hood of my car when I started it. That was the only way I could think to describe what I had seen without making it sound like I was some monster that had a psychotic break and mutilated an innocent baby cat.

The best I could do, she suggested, was to forgive myself for an unfortunate accident and that I could learn from the experience to take steps to ensure it didn’t happen again. That’s why I started putting food in the shed instead of the garage. Sure, it’s not as close and convenient, but I do have this perfect view to watch them live their happy kitty lives.

It was great advice, actually. I don’t know what I would ever do if one of my reflections were to hurt something other than myself ever again.

I started being more mindful in my attempts to resolve my situation. She helped me realize that I can take precautions without sacrificing my unique needs. Of course, as far as she knew I was just some suicidal weirdo struggling to make it through every day who uses far too colorful language.

I can see the kittens circling their mother excitedly. They’re just as that age where they should be learning to eat on their own but they would still much rather get a good knead of milk. I close my eyes, hoping to hear their mewling carried on the wind blowing in over the trees. I catch the scent of trees and mud, of black licorice.

I’m glad I survived.

It took me over thirty trips to wherever the hell I go when it happens, but I do find myself glad to be back every time now. A shiver runs through me as the breeze hits me a little colder than expected, roughly reminding me that I’m still in my pajamas. I think it bothers the guys at the gate when I show up wearing something dumb.

The red dude looked offended enough to puke the one time I had arrived wearing a “WHO FARTED?” t-shirt and cargo shorts. I’m not even sure if they can die over there but I could’ve swore he was about to have a stroke. These pajamas weren’t funny or anything, I just liked the cow print on the pants. I forgot to ask what they thought, damn it.

Maybe that’s just the euphoria of the sunrise talking.

I look back only a few hours ago and I remember weeping, beating on my own forehead in frustration while I tried to talk myself out of another suicide attempt only to turn around and cry harder as I forced myself into it. I felt the bottom of my stomach sink into the abyss before vanishing entirely as I tightened the rope and doubted myself, wondering if it was all one psychotic delusion, sweet talking myself into finally dying so I can–

I realize, quite suddenly, that I’ve gone there and back again fifty times now. I hate it just as much as I hated it the first time, but I need answers. I demand answers. I want to know why this is happening, even if it takes an eternity of passive aggressive visits to their front gate. I give my soda can an experimental shake, just to confirm it’s empty, before cautiously inhaling as it passes my nose on its way across the deck and off the side into the recycling bin down below. I thought I smelled licorice again.

Maybe I should get myself a cake. That feels right. What do you have written on a cake like that? Happy 50th? Congratulations? I could always just wait another month and call it a birthday cake but then I couldn’t really do anything too morbid without bumming someone out. I wonder if the things that used to be me go well with ice cream?

My mind recoils imagining the sensation of a thick rope of black licorice hardening as it touches the ice cream. Cold and hard, like trying to chew into gummi bears just as you take them out of the freezer. The kind of strong, resistant type of chew that leaves your jaw tired and aching to the point where it’s hard to focus on the flavor. Still, I always eat it anyway. The thick, sickening scent of black licorice causes a sensation that feels like a growling stomach.

I try to distract myself by going back inside after one last loving glance towards Mama and her band of mischief makers. I try not to think about the feel of black blood filling my mouth, consuming my entire world with its overwhelming presence. Even as I strip, I fight against its call. I fight to ignore it as it knocks on my front door, as the knocks turn to pounds.

I can’t tell if I actually smell it or if I simply want to. The water is too hot, nearly burning me as I stand with my head under the shower, hoping and hoping the pain will force me to forget that delicious scent for a moment.

“It’s okay to cry when you’re overwhelmed.”

A quick, painful slap across the shower valve shoves me abruptly from the boiling pot into the ice bucket. A sob bursts out of me from the sudden shock, and I feel the immediate pain of relief as I let myself cry under the cold water.

I cry, and I cry. I cry so hard I almost throw up but there’s nothing inside of me but bile and woe. My now shivering hand fumbles with the valve, regretting the impulsive decision to freeze myself out under ice cold water and carefully bringing it back to a more comfortable warmth. I feel it all. I felt the scalding flow turn to icy knives and then finally into comfort.

I hate the clarity of it all. My thoughts are clear, thorough, even as I stand here bawling my eyes out in a desperate struggle to understand the existence I’ve been cursed with. I can feel the sadness and despair pulling me into an unknowable abyss abandoned by any and everything that can possibly existence. Uncertainty tears away at the very foundations of my mind as I wail and sob, begging the universe for some kind of final answer.

My heart aches with lost love. I find myself lost in a sea of emotions over the pain of rejection. I scream and curse her name, that horrible, vile woman who left me. I pine for her beauty and touch, a deep and powerful bloodlust growing in the hateful depths of my broken heart. I’m determined to make her regret what she’s done, even if it costs me my life.

My cries grow heavier, angrier, and the boiling acid of my hatred burns through the walls of my soul and drips corrosively onto my bones. I grind my teeth, craving the sensations of her delicate flesh submitting to my bite that I may consume her as I so rightfully deserve to.

The cloying stench of black licorice and its profane, irresistible temptations flood my world and swallow my very being. I’m not sure when I stopped crying but I’m far more alarmed by the violent, growling grunts exploding out of my body as I start trying to break a hole in the wall with my forehead again and again.

It wasn’t until this moment that I remembered that I’ve never been in a relationship before.

I don’t recognize any of these thoughts.

Nor do I recognize the dead thing shambling through my bathroom door, a thing that used to be someone, shrieking out its black, bloody hatred through a grey, blackened maw of fleshy mush.

This one isn’t mine.

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#horror #cw: suicide mention #cw: gore #psychological horror #writing

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knovesstorytelling · 3 years

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Murray Mysteries S1E11 Transcript

Episode 11. Deck The Halls

Written by May Toudic

Mina: Welcome to Murray Mysteries.

[Theme music plays.]

Jane: Hello listeners. Friends. After last time I thought it might be a good idea to— well. I thought you deserved to be kept up to date as much as we do. You’ve been in this with us for a long time, and I know you all care about Lucy. Art has been reading all of your comments out to her while she was in the hospital. They say it’s brought them both a lot of joy in a difficult time. So thank you. For being there, for caring about people you’ve never even met. Thank you.

[She clears her throat.]

Jane: Right, news. Well. Lucy’s out of the hospital. She got a transfusion and showed significant signs of improvement in the following hours. So, they kept her in observation over the next two days and they sent her home with strict instructions to keep monitoring the situations. Art and I have been taking turns watching over her.

Jane: She’s supposed to rest, but she’s clearly been trying to stay awake. When I asked her why, she said she was afraid to sleep. Said she has a bad feeling something’s going to happen to her if she does. I had to promise her I would be there the whole time and would wake her up if anything happened or if I could see if she was having a nightmare. That seemed to do the trick. She slept for 12 hours and woke up looking a lot better. We don’t want to get our hopes up. She’s had improvements and relapses before, but things are looking promising. Art said the second night went well too.

Jane: I was supposed to get some rest before my next watch, but I had a backlog of paperwork to take care of and only managed to clear it around 4 in the morning. When I got to Lucy’s last night, she refused to let me stay up with her. Said I could sleep on the living room sofa and she would call out if she needed anything. I normally wouldn’t do this, but I was so tired, and well. She insisted.

Jane: I woke up about half an hour ago, but it’s still early so I thought I’d let her sleep in a bit before I wake her up. I should make her some coffee. If I could find out how to operate this coffee machine. Which one of these buttons am I supposed to press? What’s wrong with a simple coffeemaker?

Van Hellsing: Jesus Seward, remind me how many degrees you have.

Jane: Professor! I was just—

Van Hellsing: Waging war on the coffee machine?

Jane: It’s more like a short battle. That I’m losing.

Van Hellsing: Good thing that I thought ahead.

[She takes a paper coffee cup out of a tray.]

Jane: You have no idea how grateful I am.

Van Hellsing: It’s from that place down the road. Lovely storefront. Excellent service.

Jane: Excellent coffee.

Van Hellsing: Glad you’re enjoying it. How’s our patient?

Jane: Good, last time I saw her. I was just about to check in on her actually.

Van Hellsing: Impeccable timing, as always. Shall we?

[Footsteps, then a knock on the door. It opens.]

Jane: Lucy?

[The door closes.]

Van Hellsing: Dear God!

Jane: What’s going on, is she okay?

Van Hellsing: White as a sheet, cold skin. She’s breathing, but barely. This isn’t good.

Jane: Should I call an ambulance?

Van Hellsing: Not yet. I’ve got this. Come on, come on. You can do it, just. That’s it. That will make it better. Give it a minute to act… Good. Warming up.

Jane: Is there anything I can do?

Van Hellsing: Not right now, just. Stay close. Okay. Okay. Her breathing is back to normal. Body temperature is getting there. We should see some colour in a minute or two.

[Jane sighs shakily.]

Jane: Good. That’s really good.

Van Hellsing: It’s a good thing we got here when we did. A few minutes and could’ve been too late.

Jane: Oh God. It’s my fault, isn’t it? I never should have left her. I should’ve stayed up and—

Van Hellsing: Hey, hey. None of that. Dwelling on past mistakes will do nothing but waste your time. All we can do now is make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Jane: Shouldn’t we take her back to the hospital? They might know what to do.

Van Hellsing: Did they seem like they knew last time? No. She won’t be any safer at the hospital. At least here, I can test my theory.

Jane: Might I ask what theory?

Van Hellsing: Not just now. You’ll have to trust me until I have enough data to confirm it. Can you look after Lucy while I get supplies?

Jane: I… yeah. I can do that.

Van Hellsing: I’ll make it fast.

[She leaves, the door opening and closing. Jane sighs.]

Jane: This is going to take years of my life expectancy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re doing it for attention.

Lucy: Rude.

Jane: Lucy! You’re awake! Are you feeling okay? Oh, what am I saying, of course you’re not. How are you feeling?

Lucy: Like I’ve been run over by a bus, thanks very much. What happened?

Jane: You had a relapse. Van Hellsing took care of it, but it was… not good?

Lucy: Eh. What else is new? Did you at least get some sleep?

Jane: Yes. Unfortunately.

Lucy: Now, now, you needed it. I can’t believe you need to be coerced to take care of yourself. I should find you a girlfriend to make sure you eat and sleep and… other healthy things.

Jane: Lucy, that’s not— I, I don’t need— I’m not ready to date anyone. Not yet.

Lucy: That is what you think. But, if I put my matchmaking powers to work…

Jane: No.

Lucy: Fine. Have it your way. But do stop sulking, please. I’m not dead yet. Is that coffee?

Jane: You can have it. Adrenaline woke me up just fine.

Lucy: Sweet.

[She takes a sip.]

Lucy: Oh, damn. That’s good coffee.

Jane: Right?

Lucy: Where’s Van Hellsing? I should probably thank her for saving my life or something.

Jane: Out getting some mysterious supplies mysteriously.

[Lucy chuckles.]

Jane: She should be back at any minute.

[The door opens.]

Jane: Speaking of the cryptic devil.

[The door closes.]

Van Hellsing: Ah, Miss Westenra! Glad to see you up.

Lucy: All thanks to you, I heard. Thank you for that.

Van Hellsing: Don’t mention it. Now, who’s going to help me spruce up this room?

Jane: Spruce up?

Lucy: What’s that smell? Is that garlic?

Van Hellsing: I read garlic wreaths were the new flower wreaths. Very fashionable. Let’s see… One on your windowsill. Wonderful. Really brings out the room to life. One around your neck, of course. Always accessorize.

Lucy (whispering): What’s happening?

Jane (whispering): I have no idea. She gets like that sometimes and I think you should just go with it.

Lucy (whispering): Okay, but this is really, really weird.

Van Hellsing: Do you know how many medicinal properties garlic has? Already it’s delicious, doesn’t need to do more for the human race and yet.

[She laughs.]

Van Hellsing: Wonderful thing, garlic. Jane, would you help put this up over the door?

Jane: I… sure. How do you want it?

Van Hellsing: Just like this. Hold it there.

[She hums two lines of Deck the Halls.]

[Credits music begins.]

Credits: Murray Mysteries is a Knoves Storytelling production. This episode was written and produced by May Toudic and featured Bebhin Tankard as Dr. Jane Seward, Rebecca Krause as Professor Van Hellsing, and Megan John as Lucy Westenra. Original music by Sophie K. If you like our work and would like to support us, you can sign up for our Patreon at patreon.com/knovesstorytelling or follow us on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr. Thank you for listening.

#Murray Mysteries #mms1 #mm transcripts

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nothingofvaluewaslost · 3 years

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STORY: The Silhouette Pine

A short story. After her grandmother’s death, Jennifer is distraught at the thought of the house she remembers from happy childhood holidays being sold. However, when she tries to convince her mother to hand the house to Jennifer and her boyfriend, she stumbles upon something much darker from her past.

Not horror (or anything supernatural), but quite dark.

As usual, if you enjoyed it, feel free to check out my Patreon.

The Silhouette Pine

By Christina Nordlander

By the time they got back from the funeral buffet, it had started drizzling. Mum parked behind grandma's pale yellow VW. Jennifer looked out at the back window and saw only the reflection of their bonnet. She and Joakim had been in the back seat when grandma drove them into the city. If she focused she would feel the smell of tobacco smoke and leather, so old it had become something concrete and grainy.

She got out and hurried her steps to be close to mum in case she needed someone to support her. It wasn't necessary, and dad was next to her. Mum walked with her head a bit bowed, but there was nothing weak in the outline of her face.

Joakim had run ahead up the garden steps, two sets of steps with a flagged landing in the middle where Jennifer had slipped and busted her lip one winter. She couldn't remember the pain, just that uncle Gunnar had joked with dad that she'd been in a fight and that they should have seen the other guy.

Grandma had come to the door and hugged her every time they'd gone here: shorter than herself the last few years, with woollen scarves in warm colours around her shoulders when it was the least bit cold, perfumed with a stronger version of the scent that was diffused through the house. (Mum was still going to have to feel it, though the body that had walked around in its centre was gone.) It was too easy to deal with when it was a relative you'd only met on the holidays. She'd been old and it had been quick. The last time Jennifer had met her, last Easter, she'd been happy. She'd asked how the dissertation was coming along. Jennifer hadn't brought her notes, but she'd talked about viruses and horizontal gene transfer like an enthusiastic little kid showing off a shell collection, and grandma had said that she was doing well.

There was nothing special about the size or architecture of the house, though the basement had been exciting when she was little: it was a largish terraced house, single storey, with a flat black tin roof and a little atrium covered with a wooden deck. The price was probably mainly due to the location, close to Djursholm with its fenced harbours on Framnäs Bay.

She got her chance when she went to make some tea. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper in a circle of light. Outside the windows was nothing but blackness.

“You want a cup of tea?” Jennifer said.

“That's nice of you, honey. Lapsang, please.”

Grandma hadn't had an electric kettle. She poured water in the smallest pan and waited for it to boil. It was soothing, standing in the light and watching the bubbles starting to form on the reflecting bottom.

“You sure I can't have the house?” she said while they waited. “That way, it'll stay in the family. It's about the right size for Bayram and me, and I wouldn't have to stay with his family any more.”

Mum sighed.

“It's not that simple,” she said without looking at her. “We can't just give the house away. It would have to be taken up with mother's attorney. Besides, you wouldn't be able to pay the tax on a house like this. The two of you don't even have jobs.”

When Jennifer didn't say anything she went on:

“You can always go and check if there are any books you'd like. All that stuff we’re allowed to take, movable assets.”

It was enough. Perhaps she should have asked more, to find out whether there was a loophole. Bayram would have liked to live here, he'd barely been to Stockholm. They could have continued studying up here.

The water had started bubbling. She put the teacup by mum's elbow and took her own into the living-room.

When she was little, it had used to confuse her that grandma's house had two living-rooms: the small one with the TV – dad and Joakim were in there now watching something with mum's siblings – and the long room that took up the better part of the house. Now she could think of it as a library. One wall was covered in books, soft leather spines with deep gold print. Across the room was a French window on the atrium, lit beneath the clear black sky.

Of course she shouldn't have brought it up with mum today. She hadn't had much of a choice; in two days they were going home. They were selling the house. If one of mum's relatives had wanted to keep it she would have understood.

It wasn't the wealthy suburb. It wasn't the ornaments that grandma had moved out of reach for her and Joakim when they were too small to trust their strong flabby hands: vases in ribbed grey-green celadon, porcelain shepherdesses trimmed with lace so fine you might think it was fabric until you touched it. Over there, on the little sewing table by the atrium door, there had been a box with a surface that looked like a mosaic of sliced pearls, but grandma had said that it was made of shagreen, sharkskin. The box wasn't there now. Gunnar or Ulla must already have packed it.

She wouldn't have asked to keep any of the ornaments. Not even the books, though they would have been harder to say no to: a collection of La Fontaine's fables with Classicist copperplates, a Mucha catalogue, a book with colour reproductions of William Blake's art that had given her nightmares when she was a kid. She put the cup on the coffee table, took out the Blake book and sat down on the puffy plush couch where she'd used to sit and read when they came here, maybe with a bag of travel candy next to her. Was that the one she should pick? After the conversation she hardly wanted to take anything, but should she lose the things she had a right to because she felt ashamed?

When mum walked past towards the TV room, Jennifer looked up.

“You know, you're coping well,” she said. “I wish I were as tough as you.”

Mum lit up, faintly.

“I wouldn't say it's strength, Jennifer honey,” she said. “I've had a lot of time to prepare.”

She went in there herself later, because the room was lit and warm with people, with Joakim leaning on his elbows on the carpet.

She sat at the left end of the couch, closest to the window, and her gaze slipped outside and across the road. On the other side of the lampposts lay the forest. It was a block of darkness against the paler sky, but one higher pine leant sideways from some storm, before she was born. It was the sigil of grandma's house. Nowhere else did the forest have the same outline.

The next afternoon she went for a walk. It was November, raw and wet rather than cold. They'd used to go here for the Christmas and February breaks when the cold scorched, and dad had made a fire when she and Joakim came back from sledging. She'd sat in front of it, her back to the darkness in the window.

She tried walking as far as she could in the direction of Stockholm proper, but of course she hadn't got far before darkness fell and she had to turn back to be on time for supper.

On the way home she looked for the pine on the forest edge and found it after a while. She put her hand on the deeply ridged bark that had grown chilly like metal. When she looked across the road, all the windows were lit in yellow.

She had a quick immature impulse to stay here by the foot of the pine until she froze to death or they let her stay. It was too melodramatic, for the sake of a house.

Dad had impressed them with chicken Kiev and panna cotta for dessert, and it was her turn to wash up. Mum stayed next to her to dry the crystal glasses. It wasn't much past six o'clock, but it was winter, already night. Tomorrow she would wake in the room with the sofa-bed for the last time.

“I guess there's still no chance.”

She tried to make her voice jocular, but it just sounded high-pitched. Mum's profile was hidden by a band of dark hair while she dried the last glass.

“No, I don't see why you think you have a right to it, after what you did to your brother.”

It was too absurd. Jennifer couldn't get angry.

“What do you mean? What did I do to Joakim?”

She'd already started searching for memories: when she'd told on him for calling a classmate something foul, when she ran off while he was babysitting her and dad had given him a telling-off. None of that merited mum's tone.

“It wasn't Joakim,” mum said.

Her voice was so choked, Jennifer could barely make out the words.

“What do you mean, then?”

Perhaps she shouldn't have insisted, not when someone's voice sounded like that.

“No, Jennifer,” mum said, “don't you worry about that. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“Seriously, I didn't mean to... Forget the house, of course I don't need a house, but what do you mean about my brother?”

“I said I shouldn't have said anything!”

Mum's voice tore on the last words. She hurried out of the kitchen, a bit crouched.

She needed to finish washing up. There were a lot of dishes, they'd been seven. After a few minutes, the work and the repetitive motions had returned her to some state of calm.

While she was rinsing out the sink she heard footsteps in the door. She turned her head and managed a smile, in case it was mum, but it was dad coming to top up his beer. He grinned.

“Thanks, Jennifer. You do a good job.”

When she asked, it sounded abrupt.

Dad's shoulders sagged.

“For starters, I want you to know that it wasn't your fault,” he began. “You were just a little kid.”

She’d known that she'd had a brother who'd died in childhood. He'd never been more than a name and brown hair on some pictures in the photo album. For a while in primary school she'd been afraid of telling people about him, because then they would find out that she didn't feel anything.

If it had happened a year later, she might have remembered. She could remember things from when she was five.

It had happened in another set of garden stairs, in the old terraced house they had moved out of afterwards. It hadn't even been in the winter, slippery with ice. She'd been four years old, Alvar two. Joakim had been in his room or out playing, he wasn't in the story. Alvar hadn't dared to walk down the stairs, so she'd held his hands and walked behind and over him like a sensible older sister.

Perhaps she'd told him he wasn't allowed to walk down the stairs by himself.

They'd come running out when they heard her screaming. She'd sat crying on the stairs and at first they'd thought she was the one who had fallen.

Quick blinks of sunlight. When he tripped, his little hand slipped in hers and she didn't dare to grab it in case she tore his shoulder joint. Or was that the twenty-one-year-old Jennifer trying to reconstruct it? She thought she could remember the sun and the tarmac below the steps, but nothing else.

“We called the hospital,” Dad said, shrugging. “He hung on for a few days, but there wasn't a lot they could do.”

Her breath had become loud in her ears. She looked down at her hands. They were a grown woman's hands, probably with some scars she hadn't had then, but it was the same flesh, the same skeleton.

“I didn't know,” she said at last.

Dad nodded his heavy head.

“It wasn't right of Yvonne to tell you,” he said. “Especially like that. You can't be held responsible.”

He supported himself on the tabletop, standing up. Jennifer looked up.

“Is it OK if I have a glass of wine?”

It was one of the few times she'd had a drink – the first time she'd drunk for intoxication. The wine had an acrid fruity flavour that clung to her teeth. She took several quick gulps, because otherwise she might smell blood in her nasal cavity.

She hadn't known Alvar. She didn't remember, and yet it had been she. The moment she thought she would make it, that she would be fine, she remembered a birthday card that Joakim had sent while he was studying in Lund. It had said To the best sister.

She took another gulp. It was intended as an anaesthetic, but they only had that one bottle of dark wine. She hadn't felt anything yet, except that emotions became harder to resist. If this went on, she would be too weak to cope.

By the time she put the glass on the sink she couldn't feel any effect on her senses. She went into the bedroom and took her coat and hat. Everything around her was warm and cocooned. Her skin sucked up the warmth, and yet she didn't stay. The debit card lay stiff in her coat pocket. When she zipped up the coat, she smelled the soap from grandma's bathroom on her hands.

She walked down the steps in the orange light of the lamp on the garage wall. It wasn't raining, but the asphalt was glittering wet.

There was a bus-stop further up Svalnäs Allé. She glanced up at the timetable: a little under fifteen minutes to go. That was almost too much, but the coat was warm and she could pull her hands into the sleeves. She'd read once that alcohol thinned the blood and made it easier to freeze to death. She wouldn't die as long as she was standing up.

The wine had made all perceptions slower. Perhaps you died because you didn't care as much about the cold. It was going to get colder. Sweden was spinning towards the heart of February, with dry paving-stones and a cold that made you pant and forced you to the ground like some religious visitation.

Perhaps they'd heard when she opened the front door, but nobody came for her. Across the road the windows shone yellow, the light that meant home.

The bus braked and lowered itself with a sighing noise. The heat was wondrous on her skin when she got in, like sitting in front of a fire. The bus set itself rolling, towards the city, and she left them.

THE END

#fiction #realism #dark #tragedy

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