Then There Were Two
Her death was a tragedy – so young, and full of life; a family to leave behind. And it changed the dynamic of the family – how could it not? – permanently, and irrevocably. They were left to cope with their loss as best they could, on their own.
He had always been eccentric, always believed in the uncertain, the unknown, and the unknowable. But she was his anchor, the line that kept him attached to the earth. Without her, how could he ever be expected to remember what was definite, and what was to be questioned? How he be expected to face the reality which for so long had been focussed on her? And so he regressed back to a time before he knew her. His days were again filled with the obscure, curious lore passed down by word of mouth, the unseen. His reality became most people's fantasy.
And what else was there for her to do, but agree with everything he told her? At night, as they sat beside the fire, and he told her stories of creatures long since forgotten, and phenomena lost to time, how could she disagree with all she had left? Her mother had been a constant, something to attach to when her father's beliefs became too much. She had sat beside them, and smiled indulgently as her daughter's eyes widened with wonder at the words which poured from her father's mouth, indulging her daughter's natural interest in the world. It didn't matter that neither of them believed with the same vigour as he, he believed enough for all of them, and they had each other. But now she was gone.
So how else could she gain, could she hold, his attention, but by conscribing to his world?