Chapter 15: Childhood Memories
As we grow older, we grow wiser, but children are the key to the knowledge. You never realize how much you enjoyed childhood till it's over. We desperately want to grow up. Then it all crumbles down, and we are children once more. Life continues, children ever striving forward, leaving their childhood behind, until it's nothing but memories, and time has ran out.
In the case of Andrew Dale, he had never had a childhood. At the tender age of ten, both his parents were killed in a car crash, prompting him to raise his younger brother, Alex, under the doubtful eye of his uncle. Their uncle had insulted and beaten Andrew.
This way, Andrew had never learned weakness and he had never learned to quit. He'd raised Alex to show some emotion, but disregarded it himself. There had never been time for fun and games. Andrew felt robbed of his childhood.
Lay beside him was his pregnant girlfriend. Amy lay slumbering, blissfully unaware of her partner's worry. Andrew sighed heavily as he dragged himself out of bed. He crossed the darkened room, and opened the curtains, letting rays of golden sunshine into the room, illuminating everything with a shimmering dusty light.
Andrew sat down on the cushioned windowsill, opening wide the two windows. His eyes looked out onto the quiet roads of Appleby Street. The birds chirped merrily, and the sweet-perfumed smell of dew entered his nostrils through the open windows. He breathed deeply.
A small tear formed in his eyes, and trickled down his left cheek, before evaporating in the warm sunlight. He heard Amy stir. Remembering time was behind him. He would not let his baby become like him. His baby would have a childhood. Even if it killed him.
---
Alex lit up a cigarette.
He was exhausted, as he hadn't slept for several nights now. As he researched deeper into the case of Terri's attempted murder, he became more and more troubled. His mind plagued him, with visions of his past. A memory he didn't want to remember.
The air was thick with smoke and ash. Alex climbed up the metal stairs, feeling the searing heat against the soles of his boots.
He reached the top of the flight of stairs. "Where are you?" he cried into the dirty air, coughing as he inhaled the smoke. Claustrophobia was setting in.
There was a scream from a little girl. Alex rushed forward. Another scream, as timber fell around him, ablaze. "Hold on!" Alex cried, kicking down the door. This room was filled with smoke, and flames licked at his fingertips. The warmth was incredible. Alex felt his skin baking, sweat dripping off his forehead.
The screams continued. He ran forward, struggling over debris which lay abandoned at his feet.
Tearing open the wardrobe door, an unconscious girl, only four years old, fell forwards, unconscious. Alex lifted her limp body and ran for the staircase, making it out the burning building as it crumbled.
He watched as the little girl was carted away by the ambulance, and heard the words which scarred him forever, from one of the other firemen.
"There was a
man. Top floor. Never made it out."
Alex exhaled the smoke from his cigarette and dropped it, crushing it with his shoe. He was no closer to finding Terri's killer than he was to getting some decent sleep. And sleep was so far away.
Terri lay immobilized, silent and sleeping. Katy McHale sat beside her, her mousy hair framing her pale face.
Katy had sat here all night, but Terri had not moved or stirred. There was a bandage wrapped around her torso where the bullet had hit, and wires from various medical machines implanted in her skin. The quiet hum of the heart-monitor was the only sound, par Terri's and Katy's breathing.
Katy looked on Terri with awe. She was clearly a beautiful woman. The hospital may have left her long golden locks to become curly and grew split-ends, and removed all her make-up, but Katy was impressed still. She resembled Sleeping Beauty.
"Mrs. Wilkinson…" Katy mumbled for the tenth time in an hour. She sighed; still, no response.
The world was quiet. Then Terri woke.
---
Brad wiped the sweat from his brow, and sipped deeply from his water bottle.
"Kids!" he bellowed into the silent house, and slowly, Mary and Stewart climbed out of bed and appeared at the patio doors.
"What is it, Daddy?" asked Stewart, yawning loudly.
"Take a look for yourself." Brad replied, and stepped to the side.
The children rubbed their weary eyes, and gasped in amazement at what they saw. Before them, was a large marble block, about 10 by 10 meters. A single door led down some stone steps into a dark room. It was beautiful, but mysterious.
"What is it?" asked Mary, blinking rapidly, as if to prove what she was seeing was real.
Brad beckoned them silently, and clad only in cotton pajamas, the children tread carefully across their cold garden, barefooted.
Brad led them down the icy stone steps into the pitch black room. The door swung shut behind them, causing Mary to squeal in terror. Brad silenced her, and pulled an almost invisible white cord.
The room was suddenly lit, a searing light which hurt the children's eyes. After adjusting to the bright, single light bulb hung
Brad heard a horrified gasp from his children. It was expected. They wouldn't understand.
The room had three shelves on each wall, except the south-facing wall, where the door was. Each shelf held ten, framed photographs of the Wilkinson family, individual members and group-shots. The walls were marble, but there was unnerving shadows lurking on the muddy floor.
Stewart and Mary clutched each others hand, when they saw what was at the far end of the room. Four, separate coffins, two large and two small. All were oak, with a beautiful furnish, but carved into their lids, were the names of each Wilkinson member; Terri, Brad, Mary and Stewart.
"Welcome to the Wilkinson Shrine." Brad said. "This is where you'll die."
---
Emily was in kitchen, frantically washing dishes.
She was now a full-time mother, and Jay had just dropped off to sleep, leaving her to fulfill her household chores before Dylan came home.
She dried her hands on a towel, and then left the kitchen. She had not been with anyone since Dylan had returned, and as comforting as it was, she felt unfulfilled. Dylan was too busy to pay her attention.
She decided that she was going to marry him. She had started writing plans and organizing for the wedding. After she finished her chores, she would retrieve the book from under the sofa, and start work on it.
She retrieved the sapphire book. There were beautiful, elegant golden swirls across the front cover, and she opened it, seeing the flowers she had pressed, on the first page. She sighed deeply, and found where she had been before she had been interrupted yesterday.
She began to write down venues, lost in thought.
Half an hour passed and there was still no sign of Dylan. Anxious, Emily got up, and slid her book back under the sofa, and peered out the blinds. His car's absence from the drive worried her.
Suddenly, there was a loud revving sound, and Dylan pulled up in his red Mini. He got out, talking on his mobile phone.
The door opened, and Dylan entered, to see a doting Emily stood before him.
He silenced her. "Yeah, I'll need those reports in on Tuesday." He said into the receiver, before hanging up. "Emily, I'm exhausted, could you make me some t-"
"There's a cup on the Sitting Room table." Emily said, but Dylan failed to notice her icy tone.
On his shirt, was red lipstick. And it wasn't hers.
---
Charlene woke to an agonizing pain in her stomach.
She had been in hospital for nearly a week, after her trip down the stairs, and had only just regained consciousness.
"Where am I?" she asked, groggily.
Her daughter filled an empty paper cup with water, from the jug beside Charlene. "You had a fall. You're in hospital."
Charlene drank deeply from the cup. "Where's Matt?" she asked.
"He had to go. Doctors say the baby's fine, but you were in shock." Erin said, pouring her mother another drink. "Something about hyperventilating."
Charlene tried to remember the fall. Her memories were like water in cupped hands, the details trickling through her fingers as she tried desperately to hold onto them.
Her last thought had been Amy. She'd seen her next-door-neighbor only a week ago, and despite what Matt said, Amy was three months pregnant.
She remembered the rage, which had flown through her body. What if it was Matt's child? Would he leave her for his wife?
Charlene clenched her fist, crushing the empty polystyrene cup. He wouldn't leave her, or he would pay the ultimate price.
---
Ben and Ellie sat in the room which smelled heavily of cleaning products. They were waiting anxiously for news of Maria's condition. It was they who had put the woman in hospital, but had left no trace of murder.
Ellie had scrubbed the carpets, while Ben had disposed of the knife. Not a single clue remained in their spotless house, and still, paranoia and worry filled their sleepless minds.
"Mr. and Mrs. Jones?"
The two took their feet, swaying nervously. "Yes?" Ben answered.
A man, with wavy blonde hair, a perfect smile encrusted onto his tanned face who was wearing a long white coat, stood before them.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Stone has gone into a coma." He told them gently.
Ellie gasped, while Ben bit his lip nervously. "That's awful." Ellie said.
"Unfortunately, we can find no reason, other than the stab wound, which would send her into shock." The doctor continued, fidgeting with the stethoscope around his neck. "Can you think of any reason which could have sent her into trauma?"
The pair shuffled uncomfortably. The doctor had seen it before. Families never liked these awkward questions about their home life.
However, the circumstances would have to be extreme for something to thrust a kitchen knife threw her back and fractured her spine. She would be paralysed…if she woke, of course.
"No." Ellie said, and the doctor nodded, with a caring smile on his face. He had seen many injuries on Appleby Street, many fatal. The ideal street? He scoffed at the thought. The policy on that street was 'kill or be killed'. And Maria had danced with death.
---
As the sun began to set on Appleby Street, only a solitary figure remained on the overgrown lawn that belonged to Mr. Dale. The scorching heat burned his neck as he tried to tame the untamable garden.
"Tom?"
The fair haired lad looked up. Nadine was stood in front of him, still wearing her green school sweater, with a white shirt underneath, and a red tie. She was wearing a grey skirt, and black tights, as well as her black boots.
"What's up?" Tom asked, wiping the sweat from his brow as he took a breaking from mowing the lawn.
"My parents are getting suspicious that I'm spending so much time with you." Nadine twirled a strand of her dark brown hair around a finger nervously.
"Then we'll tell them." Tom concluded. "We're together and they can't do anything."
"My mum would kill me-" Nadine began.
"I'll tell her. She'll have to kill us both." Tom said, with a cheeky wink, and Nadine felt her cheeks flush.
In life, people should be more careful what they say. Some take things too literally.
---
Amy rapped on the door.
The wooden panels before her, painted with a peeling brown seemed to quiver before her. She was in Pearview Avenue, where she had grew up and married Matt.
There was silence for a few moments, before the door was wrenched open by Simon.
Simon was a psychic. He was nearly sixty, with neatly trimmed grey hair, cut to perfection. His eyes were grey, and weary. He wore a simple blue sweater, and black trousers. Amy had grown up next door to him. She had never doubted his guidance before, even when she was scared of his predictions.
It had been fourteen years since she had last visited, but she remained in hope he would help her. Andrew was wonderful, and loved her children, but he wasn't their father.
"Amy Hunt? I've been expecting you." Simon said with a wrinkled smile, as he let her in, and guided her to the usual room.
It was a dark room, two large windows covered by purple curtains. On the ceiling was a huge star chart, the white 'stars' were actually concealed lights. There was a table in the centre, small and wooden. It was covered by overly large table cloth, blue with stars on.
Simon led her to the table and sat her down. Amy reached in her purse, and fished out the sufficient amount and paid him.
"Thank you." Simon said, and pocketing the cash. "Now, give me your hands."
Amy nodded and held out her hands. Simon took them, and closed his eyes, concentrating. "It's been three weeks since he left you, hasn't it?" asked Simon.
Amy gasped. He hadn't lost his touch. Feebly, she nodded.
"You and he are not done yet." The psychic told her.
"Excuse me?" asked Amy, confused. "We have a hearing on Tuesday, and then we're divorced."
"He has a greater role to play in the future of your child." Simon said; his eyes still closed.
"What do you mean?" Amy inquired of the mystic man.
"Is your neighbor well? Mrs. Gates," Simon asked, and Amy pulled her hands away, shocked.
"How did you know?" she asked, but Simon shook his head, reaching out and taking her hands again.
"The spirits know all, Miss Hunt." Simon said, frowning. "Now, you must not let any other interfere with the child. The child must be raised by yourself and yourself alone. Both fathers will play little importance after the birth."
There was a pause, when Simon continued to delve into the spiritual realm. "Miss Hunt, you must repair relationships with your neighbor, or the baby will face grave peril."
Amy stood up. "No! Charlene has stolen my husband. And he won't play a part in my child's life."
"I realize this is hard, as they are expecting too. But your child will be the survivor. You must nurture it with care and love. Do not let others raise your child." Simon warned, following Amy as she began to leave the room.
"Leave me alone!" Amy screamed, breaking into a run and exiting Simon's house, tears streaming down her pale face, as she ran for her car to go home.
As our childhoods draw to a close, we wish desperately for more time. Our memories fade, and it seems pointless in the endless circle which is life. We desire so much from life, that we cannot satisfy these as children. We rush through life headfirst, never thinking about what we are leaving behind. When Death comes, with his scythe in hand, we have no choice to admit we are only children in this world.