Silencio by L A Berry

Author:L A Berry [Berry, L A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: L. A. Berry
Published: 2020-04-06T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Arms and legs suspend in the air but the cushion under her body disappears all of a sudden, and she falls at the speed of a meteorite heading for the earth. Mercedes tries to scream but she chokes as her heart moves into her throat from her chest and pulsates at the pace of a racehorse. A building comes into view, its roof flashes by and she clenches her eyes shut just before she crumbles into pieces on the pavement that hurtles in her direction.

Her body stiffens in a spasm and she wakes, the dream cut off forever in the second before she hit the earth.

A sour taste remains in her mouth as she watches the moonbeams dance between the shadows on the wall; their performance soothes her unsettled mind. As she adjusts her legs, a weight shifts on her lap. An empty wine bottle rests on its side, suspended in the hammock between her legs that the blanket has created. The room swims when she adjusts her head, bringing back unpleasant memories of the twenty-four hours of hell she endured on a ferry two years ago. The plate on the table at her side overflows with spent matches and scrunched paper tissues; at least she didn’t burn the place down when she tried to light the fire. Hazy memories of the night flit into her consciousness and replace the remains of her nightmare. Even though she eases herself up, a vice tightens around her skull, causing her to moan aloud. A photo frame lies face up on the floor beside her left foot. It must have fallen off the coffee table during the night and she bends to retrieve it but the movement triggers a wave of nausea. Leaving it for later, she collapses back in the chair with her eyes pinched as she waits for the spinning to stop. After the world stops turning, she raises one eyelid and tests the daylight before she blinks the other one open.

Mercedes could paint the photo on the floor from her memory. Everything is a shade of white – the blanket, the surroundings, and the tiny face – all white. When held close, it is possible to make out the darker shade of closed eyelids and, below them, a button that is a perfect nose. If the lips were pink, they would be a rosebud but it is hard to appreciate the shape with the absence of colour. The hair shows on the baby in the photo but no reminder of her own child is necessary; there was none on her baby and the top of his head was bruised, damp, and speckled with blood and a waxy white paste. In the blanket cocoon, the child’s hands and feet are not on show but if she closes her eyes, she can picture those of her son, so tiny that all four together would fit into the palm of her hand. One additional thing the photo never captured was the lifeless feel of his body.

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