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A Mother's Intuition Kelantha
I
came upon the charred remains of the cards in the grate, their edges
furled and bent, the mangled images rendered to devastation like cities
lain to ruin by ancient kings. My hand faltered as I beheld them,
remembering how my mother had told me they were evil. I knew my husband
had made use of them, that it was this that brought him to our chamber
that morning in a discontent mood, a deeper brooding in his bottomless
eyes than I had before experienced. The nearby pillow was still dented
were our son had rested his head, eyes closing in sleep, contented by his
father�s near presence. I touched it and felt the lingering warmth, a
vision of my imagination, for he had been taken to bed long ago. Sunlight
was creeping along the passage. The fire had gone out and I brushed the
remains of it into the dustbin and retired. The house was quiet in the
hours before the dawn, the door creaking faintly as I entered our son�s
room. The draperies had been closed and I was allowed to approach. He was
so angelic in sleep, and I tousled his hair gently with my fingertips,
bending to kiss the softness of his skin. He gave a boyish little moan and
turned on the pillow, his hand revealing that which was clasped in his
fist. My eyes alighted on it with displeasure, for it was the little
ornament my husband had insisted had been gotten rid of. Despite the pain
that assaulted me, I pried his hand open and removed the cross. Letting it
dangle on the long silver chain, I took it to the window and flung it as
far and high as I could, watching as it arched through the trees and fell
into the branches. Dracula
was awaiting me when I returned to our room, his hand extended to welcome
mine. I settled with him in the coffin and did not speak. It was a
dreamless sleep but into it invaded a presence that was unmistakable.
Mihail came to us, lifting the coffin lid and peering in at his parents,
his features written into complacency. His hand reached out to smooth a
curl back from my brow, eyes shooting to his father�s stoic features.
�I will be with you, Mama,� came his voice listlessly into my
subconscious. �I am as you are.� Then
he faded away. I
do not know what awakened me while the sunlight still wavered in solemn
ripples over the polished hardwood floor, but such an overwhelming feeling
of dread assailed me that I lifted the lid of the coffin to listen. The
house was abnormally silent. Mihail was not a noisy child, but it was
strangely vacant of his complacent footstep, the rustling of his
governess� skirts as she hurried along behind him. My husband still
reposed soundly beside me, unmoving as I abandoned him for the lonely
corridors of the house. There was nothing, not a whisper or a movement.
Mihail�s room was as he had left it, books open on the floor and the
curtains rustling in the breeze. One
of his favorite places to escape to was his father�s library, and I
sought it with increasing concern, for the feeling of despair was closing
in upon me. I threw open the door and beheld the scattered bookshelves
recklessly, finding no nimble little form bent over his work. I sensed
that he had been there and entered, sinking onto the nearest divan and
covering my face with trembling fingers. How long I remained there, I do
not know, only that when I awakened, darkness had fallen. My feet carried
me down the long corridor, straining for some sound; an indication that
the governess and her charge had returned from what must have been their
afternoon walk. I
threw open the outer door to run into the gardens and drew up short, for
an obscure figure slowly bled into the light spilling out behind me. It
was my husband.
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