Bloodstone

by M. J. Mallon

  Then I noticed the music in the room had begun to jar my nerves, becoming a cacophony of noise. Dad rushed to open the lid on his record player, grabbing the stylus roughly, causing it to scratch the surface of the record. The screeching grated and sent shivers up my arms.

  Dad ended the Charades game by closing the lid of the record player. His face remained grim, and his lips stretched across his mouth in a slash of red. I stayed out of his way and hung back watching, not sure what would happen next.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mum asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder. I detected an edge to her voice, a sharp, unfamiliar sound of worry. Her auburn hair appeared to flatten and lose its shape, forming a mask of uncertainty around her cheerful face.

  My dad’s immediate reply terrified me. The curve of his mouth turned upside down, and his appearance reminded me of a dejected clown with a mouth covered in a frown of smeared make-up. His expression did more than shock me; it triggered a fountain of tears inside. I shook but reached out to touch his arm. ‘Dad, what’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, it’s nothing,’ was all he would say. Mum and I exchanged worried glances.

  The candles on my birthday cake, a homemade chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla ice cream delight, remained unlit. I gazed at the sweet confection as the ice-cream dripped, forming a multi-coloured puddle, a glossy pastel mess, on the plate.

  We should have sung ‘Happy Birthday.’ My voice hung in the air, unanswered.

  The room became hot, yet no fire warmed us. A trickle of perspiration formed on Mum’s lip, a tiny moustache of sweat. She frowned and walked unsteadily toward the fireplace. I shivered as Mum added more logs and then re-lit it. The fire roared in the grate, warming the room. I watched as my dad stared into the distance, with unapproachable glassy eyes. My birthday celebration had crashed and burned, and it hadn’t even struck midnight. This had to be a first. My tears hid just below the surface, ready to erupt.

  ‘Off to bed, Amelina,’ Mum urged. A dark cloud slipped over her eyes as if she attempted to hide something. She spoke in a blunt voice I didn’t recognise. She wanted me out of the room.

  ‘But Mum.’ I couldn’t hold back the protest in my voice.

  Her blue eyes turned icy. When I heard her screech, ‘Now,’ I knew she meant it.

  I shivered again, but this time not from the cold. My limbs were heavy, my heart unsure. I moved down the hallway on silent feet toward the stairs to climb up to my bedroom. I shook my head and puzzled over what had happened and why my parents were acting so strangely.

  I opened the door to my room, dejected. I didn’t bother to brush my teeth or put my pyjamas on. I climbed into bed fully clothed. I couldn’t shake the strange feeling over what had just occurred. It made me feel queasy, so I grabbed my covers, pinching and pulling them tight around me like a security blanket.

  Sleep eluded me. I could still hear the sound of Dad’s footsteps walking to and fro, pounding the tiles in the downstairs hallway. The thud disturbed me. I noted his unmatched footfalls, one heavy and the other light. I closed my eyes tightly when I heard Mum’s voice pleading, while Dad’s voice remained silent. I focused my attention on what happened next; on the floor below I heard the sound of a door opening and then slamming to a close. The reverberations shook our house with a strange shock wave.

  Rushing over to my bedroom window, I peered into the gloom, searching for the source of the noise. I cocked my head, listening, trying to discern events as they unfolded. The sound of departing footsteps continued and then stopped. In its place, I heard a strange buzzing sound, amplified to an extraordinary level. The intonations echoed as if a bunch of insects were in the midst of a rave in our garden. I witnessed a momentary flash of gold, and two scorching red lights flew away into the sky. The overwhelming silence scared me.

  My eyes returned to ground level, following the path that extended into our garden. The trail stretched the full length of our house, encroaching upon a wilderness that lived beyond. I recalled an old tree had fallen days before, its eerie branches curled, almost like its gnarled hands reached out, trying to grab us.

  A sick feeling registered in my gut. Perhaps dark creatures of the adjacent forest had claimed him? I shuddered, wondering if maybe a monster had captured him. A terrible feeling of dread settled in the pit of my stomach, sitting there like a crushing stone of worry. I stepped back from the window, and with heavy footsteps, I descended the stairs.

  Near the landing, I found Mum huddled in a corner, crying. She wiped her tear-stained face when she saw me. I put my arms around her and held her close. We sat like that for hours.

  When Dad didn’t return, Mum placed a call to the police to say he had disappeared. But somehow, deep down inside me, I knew the police wouldn’t be able to help us. I stood there mute, staring at Mum talking on the phone. I didn’t know why Dad had left or for how long he’d gone. There’d been no goodbye. No explanation, just the sound of his retreating steps moving further away down the road, leaving Mum and me far behind.

  Our once happy family evoked distant memories, and laughter became a cruel joke. I glanced around and remembered our happy past. I felt it then, the realisation that our house had shrunk, reflecting our sorrow.

  With that awareness, the vision I had experienced passed. I slipped outside the front door, gasping for fresh air. Blinking away tears of sadness, I lifted my head and stared at the sky, willing it to reveal its secrets. No stars twinkled in reply; instead, an inky blackness stared back, flooding my senses with despair. My thoughts returned to my painting and the canvas, knowing that this story remained unfinished.

  Puzzle Piece 7:

  Dad’s Return

  Poetry is my heart,

  But it beats,

  A single verse, a note of sorrow,

  This ruby-eyed, black-hearted curse lives,

  A bug-eyed monster continues to torment me,

  Staring at my weeping canvas,

  I am transported to a time I long to forget.

  The time I long to forget was Dad’s homecoming.

  The irony did not escape me.

  It should have been a celebration, but Dad’s return reminded me more of a Shakespearean tragedy. I’d just turned fifteen. It had been such a long wait, and I’d hoped for this reunion for so long—but now it ripped my heart apart like a sick joke. It had been no party. As I remembered back to that day, tears of pent-up sadness spilled on my canvas.

  I shook the memory from my mind, and I scrutinised my painting. For a second, instead of the image of the sky I had just painted, I saw my dad’s face staring at me. One-half of his image held a youthful aspect, while the other side appeared elderly, forcing me to acknowledge my pain. Yes, my dad had returned, but he’d changed. Time had stolen his youthfulness. His watery eye stared back from the canvas, beseeching me to save him. All the while, his right eye twinkled with a contrasting brilliance.

  I watched the left side of his lip tremble. His painted face beseeched me, ‘Help me, help me.’ The right side grinned and also spoke. ‘I’m fine; ignore that wretched old half of me.’

  Shaken with the realisation that my precious gift of paints carried a torture buried within its lovely packaging, I shook my head. ‘Please, stop,’ I cried, my eyes filling with fresh tears.

  In reply, the portrait changed. Instead of Dad’s face, I now made out the figure of Ryder, in all his youthful glory. His eyes met mine and smiled at me. In the background of the painting, I watched as dark shadows billowed and moved. I drew back when I noticed Ryder’s eyelids made up, in a dramatic smoky eye effect one would see during a theatrical production. Dressed all in black, he resembled a Halloween painting. As I stared at him, his meadow green eye turned a nasty red.

  I shook my hand, swearing at the paintbrush, hating it for what it was doing to me. I needed this to stop now. However, no release came. So, in desperation, I shouted, ‘Release me.’

  ‘Alright, alrighhhht,’ the paint pots cried in unison. The brush answ
ered with one final piercing whistle and then surrendered, releasing me. The compelling trance came to an end. My fingernails returned to their usual pink colour.

  I laughed, but it sounded like a hysterical emission from my lips. Feeling nauseous and disoriented, I rushed off to the toilet and vomited, bile rising from my throat, choking me with its sourness. It was all too much. Even my beloved art tortured me with thoughts and memories I couldn’t let go of.

  Looking at the drab, colourless furnishings surrounding me in the lounge, I sighed. A sad echo of melancholy reverberated throughout the house like a rung bell. Our bereft home continued, without a soul, just like our family, which now existed without my dad. The heart of our family had been ripped out, erased in one swift moment, replaced by a terrible void.

  Our house had always been different, even before all of this. It resembled a mini mansion, a four bedroom with a large kitchen, sliced through with a long hallway, and behind the premises sprawled a wild garden. But for now, the heart of my home seemed to have shrunk to a tiny, compressed space. A room boxed in and filled with despair.

  I picked up my favourite photo of my mum and dad where both of them were smiling. It tugged at my heart, making me sad at how faded it seemed. I hesitated, wishing I could turn back the clock, to reset time. I longed for it to be that simple.

  Instead, all my thoughts concentrated on that horrible day so long ago when my dad had returned. The memories flooded into my brain and I sat down on the settee trying to decipher my thoughts.

  Yet, I remembered that day like it had been etched in glass. I had heard a knocking sound from the front door, a light tapping, persistent noise. I flew downstairs on swift feet. Through the frosted glass of the door, I peered at a hazy silhouette. The knocking stopped. I opened the door a fraction and squinted at the figure that stood in front of me. He gasped for breath, making terrible rasping sounds. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot.

  The terrible sight of this man made me cling to the door frame, seeking support, almost mimicking his misery. I wanted to run, to escape this visitor, but for whatever reason, I let him in. I knew it was the right thing to do. One thought gave me comfort; I figured if this stranger turned nasty, I could run faster than he could.

  That occurrence seemed so unlikely, I almost laughed. I had this particular feeling that the man had zero chance of going anywhere. Thinking quickly on my feet, I reasoned that if I slammed the door in his face, the poor guy would probably die right there on my doorstep. I sighed. Choice made. I’m no murderer. Stealing another glance at the strange man, I winced. He wasn’t a pretty sight. He hobbled into the house with a slow, painful shuffle. For some odd reason, I didn’t object to him coming in. I didn’t welcome this stranger, but I did pull the dining chair out for him. He didn’t sit; he collapsed.

  I had no clue what to do next. I hovered for a moment, my intention uncertain. The man’s breathing continued to rattle in his chest, so I rushed off to retrieve a glass of water to quench his thirst. When I returned, he struggled to hold the glass with his pinkie extended, his hand shaking, and the water spilling on the floor. I observed him through lowered eyes as he lifted the glass to his lips, drinking in gulps that tugged at my heart.

  ‘Amelina,’ he croaked, his sad eyes swimming through tears to reach me. The man’s eyes drew us together. The shock of meeting his gaze pummelled me with a force equal to a ferocious wave. His voice couldn’t say the words he longed to say, those syllables drowned on some faraway shore. I watched him struggle to speak. My name was buried in his heart. I recognised him. It was that tiny finger which reminded me before his voice did. He’d always had trouble bending that finger, ever since he’d broken it.

  I heard the sound of the key turning in the front door. It was Mum. He heard it too. He gazed up, his sad eyes expectant, begging for recognition. She didn’t have a clue what sight would greet her. She walked into the hallway. ‘Amelina, I’m home,’ she yelled.

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t say a word. The sight of Dad’s finger held me transfixed. Mum saw us. She staggered and then swayed. Her eyes bulged, two round orbs staring at the scene before her. ‘What the, who… is…?’

  With trembling hands, the man lifted the glass to his lips. At that moment, Mum recognised the truth. Poor Mum. It was too much for her; she swayed and fainted, hitting the floor with a thud.

  Puzzle Piece 8:

  Mirror Talk

  Better than you do,

  The mirror knows your secrets,

  Laughter is hollow,

  Unless we are free to live,

  Beyond our own reflection.

  I felt the need to unravel the mystery of my father’s disappearance. Somehow, I knew it all began with Esme, a captured victim of a curse who lived in the mirrors of our house and kept out a watchful eye. I could see her, but Mum couldn’t. As far as I could tell, neither could Dad. That suited me because Esme was my secret.

  I remembered seeing Esme shortly after she had vanished from school, when Dad disappeared two years ago. The memories of that day flooded into me so much that I’d thought I had been hallucinating. Poor Esme. When I saw her reflection staring at me in the mirror, the first thing I did to acknowledge her presence was to grab a flannel and try to wipe her away. Some welcoming! Except she wasn’t a reflection, she existed. When she spoke, I almost fell over in shock.

  ‘Hey, stop that,’ she scolded. ‘I don’t need a shower; you’re making me all smeary.’

  I stepped back and stumbled in surprise. This is crazy. Bizarre. Extraordinary, how can this be happening? At that moment, I felt like I had tumbled into a Dr Who mystery. Who else had such a dysfunctional family—a disappearing Dad, an accomplished vanishing cat, a cranky Mum, and now, a girl who lived in mirrors for a best friend? No one!

  I recognised Esme as a girl from my school who’d vanished with no explanation, who had then turned up as a permanent fixture in my mirror. I struggled with this reality and closed my eyes, willing her away. My hands shook. I couldn’t take much more of this craziness.

  When I opened my eyes, she hadn’t moved an inch. I fumed, shaking my head in disbelief. She scowled at me as if I’d captured her and put her there myself, like I’d made it my habit to be her jailer. I stumbled down the stairs and ran through the house, checking each mirror. She appeared in all of them—every single one. My thoughts swirled like a nightmare where I had the image of a scowling Esme staring at me with a look of disdain on her face.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I spoke to her. It took a great effort, but I acknowledged her existence, even though this whole situation was mental. ‘Esme. What are you doing hanging out in the mirrors in my house? How can this even be?’ This didn’t go down well, and instead of replying, she hammered on the mirror, screamed, and then collapsed in a corner, crying.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if whatever was happening to my family had reached beyond us and touched others.

  Esme answered when she’d got over the shock of seeing me. ‘I can’t tell you how I got here. I’m compelled to keep that a secret. All I can say is that I’m trapped and can’t get out. Whereas you can walk out the door, but you won’t be free until you find the cottage.’ Esme smiled. Her blonde hair caught the reflections from the morning light hitting the mirror, leaving a shiny spot on the wall behind me. I gazed at her face and saw that her eyes held the truth: in the sadness, she couldn’t hide.

  Mum’s face showed that same sign of sadness. She had this habit of checking her reflection every time she came in and before she left the house, hoping that one day this ritual would allow her to see a change in her appearance. I would often sneak out of bed in the early hours to catch her talking to her reflection.

  Mum’s reflection always sent poor Esme into shock mode. I’d watch as she’d sink deeper into the imprisoning walls of the hallway mirror, shrinking away from the disturbing sight of Mum’s white skin, her bright orange hair, and sharp features.

  Today, I did something that perhaps I sh
ouldn’t have done. Mum assumed no one else could overhear her, but I eavesdropped and listened as she talked to herself in the mirror. I could tell Mum didn’t realise that she had been spilling her heart out to us both.

  What followed could only be classified as fit for an agony column found in a magazine. It might not be as accurate an account because I can’t remember exactly what Mum said, but Esme and I remembered overhearing these words…

  Mum faced the mirror and smoothed her hair. She peered into the mirror and spoke with careful words. ‘I don’t feel I can share my thoughts with anyone, not even Mark. Somehow, we’ve grown so far apart even though we live in the same house. Every time I look at him, I see so much pain in his eyes, and in Amelina’s eyes, too, so I prefer to talk to my reflection. It’s easier this way, and I like to share my secrets with you. Mirrors don’t talk back, argue, or complain. There’s something magical in your silent response. It’s almost like you wince at the sight of me but understand and deflect my pain.’

  I watched the tenseness in Mum’s posture as she stood emptying her soul into the mirror. She shook her head and continued.

  ‘I hate who I’ve become. I’m a bad tempered, ugly mess. My misery’s visible to everyone, and I know it. Other people might feel sad, but they can hide their emotions. Not me. When I look at myself, I see the stress from Mark’s disappearance and then his reappearance, and how it’s chiselled me into something unrecognisable. I feel like a bloody sculpture gone wrong.’ At this pronouncement, Mum’s voice wavered with emotion. She sighed and wiped a tear from her eye.