The only light that came into the room slithered between long strings of clay beads that swung in the opening of a door. As these strands swayed, so did the shadows that stretched their way to the bed where the woman lay.
Ophelia Atlin moved her head—it felt so heavy— as the beads clattered chaotically to announce the entry of two people: her daughter and the girl’s caretaker.
“Dorothea.” She reached out to her child, trying not to let desperation cloud her face. How much would the little one even remember after losing her mother at the age of thirteen? Not enough. No amount of time was ever enough.
A soft hand with warm, chubby fingers wrapped around Ophelia’s trembling one. Then a head was gingerly placed upon her chest. She’d used to pull on and play with her mother’s hair, tug on her arms too hard when asking her to play, but such habits had been forced from her with the coming of her mother’s weakness.
“How is my darling today? What did you do?”
“The tradespeople came. There are too many tomatoes.” Her nose scrunched up in disgust.
She laughed, adjusting her daughter’s weight atop her as her chest tightened. “Remember to always eat your vegetables, okay? So you can grow up strong.” Since when had every word sounded like a farewell?
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“Okay.” Over the past few weeks her responses had become so short and resigned.
Ophelia wanted to scream and sob. “I’m sorry, Dorothea.” Tears pricked at her eyes. “I did what I had to do. Please tell me you understand that.”
“I understand.”
Was she telling the truth? Ophelia tried to say more, but an edge of pain like a brisk rainstorm wind cut across her chest, and she sucked in a raspy breath instead.
“Should I leave?”
“No! No, it’s fine, darling.” Ophelia reached up to pet her child’s hair. Her fingers got caught in a tangle that knotted the gray strands together. “I thought I told you to comb your hair every morning. You have to take care of yourself.”
“I—” Dorothea halted abruptly.
“What is it, sweetie?” Ophelia almost closed her eyes in reverence when her daughter touched her lips.
“Mom?” The child held up fingertips tinged red.
“Not yet,” Ophelia begged in a whisper before a stream of blood and bile erupted from her mouth. Dorothea shrieked as it splattered them both. She flailed back to sit at Ophelia’s feet, then watched, helpless and morbidly transfixed.
Ophelia’s body jerked about, a bird with two broken wings attempting flight, her head lolling to the side. The wreckage spread slowly, from the tips of her fingers and toes upwards and inwards. It was strange, the way a body could bend upon itself, the sounds it made when bone swerved at unimaginable and incorrect angles. Crack, crack, crack, up the arms and legs, ribs caving in upon and impaling internal organs, and lastly the neck. In this way, a slow, merciless death came to its close.
Dorothea, in this unforgettable last memory of her mother, saw her own future displayed.