Mind Terrors 1

by D I Russell

  With a wide grin, Caiden pointed, but ever the protective parent, Lee shook his head. Could never be too careful around strange dogs and women. He appeared to greet the woman as he passed her, and all three took a moment to watch the cavorting pup.

  This isn’t getting any work done, thought Samara and returned to the canvas.

  She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, attempting to calm her mind. Listening to the waves and the wind gusting about the house like a forlorn spirit. Her slowed thoughts seemed to sink a little inside her head, finding a slower pace, descending to a darker level.

  Here the girl waited. She had never left.

  Samara’s moment of acceptance all those years ago—soaking wet, blind drunk, and on her knees in a filthy alley—had not separated her from the spectre. Yet she was no longer considered as the girl outside. Samara had learned to keep her close, to familiarise and study this aspect of herself. The girl was never far away in every social interaction, forming that eternal barrier and blocking most connections. As teenagers, Lily had punctured through and provided Samara’s only real intimate relationship with the world. Now Lee and Caiden did the same…but her desire to belong had long faded. They were all she needed. As a result, the girl’s power over her had diminished as the years slipped by, but her obsession, confessions, and admissions? These dark facets never faltered.

  Samara wandered the void deep inside her mind, seeking out the shadow that shaped her, the presence that had honed her as sharp as an art knife.

  She opened her eyes, dipped the tip of her paintbrush into a delicate shade of white, and returned to Woe. She had an important package to deliver before the post office closed, but hopefully she could fit in another hour of canvas time.

  ***

  Brenda stood back and admired her handiwork. She’d hammered a nail into wall perfectly straight, and despite the jeers of her husband from the armchair through the process, had hit neither wiring nor water pipe. One more task done. The picture had arrived midweek, but she’d been working overtime up to Saturday. At least Sunday gave her time to catch up, once the washing was done. And the chicken was cooked. Ironing later. The single nail in the wall was a quick and easy job off the never-ending list.

  Gavin was reclined in the armchair. They’d bought a new suite for themselves last Christmas, able to spend a little more with an empty nest, and he lived in the chair now, his feet up on the new ottoman. An ottoman! Brenda still couldn’t believe it. They had an ottoman.

  “Going to give me a hand hanging it, then?” she asked.

  Her husband grunted and pointed at the television. “At half time. Jesus, never get a minute in this house…” He performed his scratch trifecta: bald head, fat gut, hand down the front of his jeans.

  Brenda ignored Gavin, deciding she didn’t need him after all. While the canvas was large, close to poster size and would have cost a fortune to post, it proved light. A thin string was already affixed across the back of the thin wooden frame. A simple job. Just might need some tweaking to get it straight. Gavin could direct that from the armchair, if he could be bothered to look away from the match.

  She’d been thrilled when it arrived. The mantelpiece and cabinet were full to brimming with pictures and keepsakes. Kelly’s girls had made her the most adorable Mother’s Day card, which currently took pride of place. A photograph taken at her fortieth birthday, mother and daughter a few drinks worse were for wear, arms around each other. Gavin and Kelly’s other half taking the girls on their first big roller-coaster. A picture of Kelly on her first day of work, in the supermarket uniform.

  Yes. The picture would certainly make an interesting addition.

  Brenda lifted the canvas, and after a moment of blindly feeling for the nail, lined up the string. Following a slight adjustment, she stood back, gauging its level.

  “Is that straight?”

  Gavin barely glanced. “Yeah. Whatever.” He winced as the away team earned a corner.

  Brenda studied the picture. It certainly looked straight, but something was a little off.

  “You remember the picture?” said Gavin and chuckled.

  “How could I forget?” said Brenda.

  It had been the first thing to pop into her head when the girl behind the post office counter handed over the package. The picture. It had somehow sewn itself back together and come to haunt them once more. Hell, those were some bad times. Samara had been a difficult baby, and they’d longed for the days of childhood, no more sleepless nights and sterilising bottles. But childhood had been worse. She’d been both a clumsy and inquisitive girl, a combination leading to all manner of messes and breakages. School teachers concerned about her interactions. Hours spent in her room playing alone. How they’d longed for the teenage years. But adolescence had been far, far worse.

  “And then she was gone not long after,” muttered Brenda.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Look, are you sure that’s straight?”

  Brenda certainly recognised the artist, both literally and from the style. Her daughter’s skill had certainly developed over the years. She’d always thought the girl in the destroyed painting had been a self-portrait. Looking at the picture, she started to have her doubts. The woman here was clearly Samara, and not some gothic model that bore a similar resemblance. She still wore her hair long and straight, but rather than have it hide her face, it was tied back to reveal her smile. No wishful thinking on the part of the artist either, as Brenda noticed even this Samara carried wisps of grey hair, a little extra weight, and lines around the eyes. Seemed Lee had also been eating well since the last time they’d visited. He held an arm around his wife, grinning broadly. Brenda leaned in and inspected the lenses of his spectacles. Samara had done some detailed natural reflections in there. Standing between his parents, little Caiden peered out from the canvas with a cheeky smile. His hair had been slicked and parted on the side. He looked quite a dapper young man.

  “You don’t think…” Brenda took another step back, eyes locked on the gift. “You don’t think it’s a bit much do you?”

  Gavin ripped himself away from the match. “Why? Because it’s a bit big?”

  His wife considered the rows of photographs she’d amassed over the years. “I’m worried that she’s trying to…you know…upset her sister.”

  “Jesus Christ, Bren. It’s only a bleedin’ painting. If you’re that worried, hang it in the spare bedroom and bring it out next time they visit. Not like they come ‘round every week now, is it?”

  Brenda grimaced, fighting with her guilt. Kelly would be here after her shift. Might make things difficult.

  She stopped and snapped her head up, staring at the picture.

  The trio smiled back at her.

  Brenda returned to the wall and studied the captured face of her daughter. She passed her hand lightly over the paint, sure she’d seen something move. Perhaps a spider, camouflaged by the darkness of Samara’s slightly open mouth. She peered closer, trying to penetrate the darkness within.

  At the back of the throat…

  Brenda reached towards the picture.

  Stupid woman.

  “You know…” she said, snatching her hand back and pulling the picture up and off the nail, “I think I might hide this after all. Just for now.”

  “Just for now,” said Gavin, reaching for the remote. “Put it in the shed if you want. Sure it won’t come to any harm outside.”

  Thank you for reading.

  If you enjoyed Outside, why not join us for dinner?

  FINALIST FOR THE AUSTRALIAN SHADOWS AWARD IN LONG FICTION

  MIND TERRORS 2:

  CRITIQUE

  Sandy Devanche considers himself to be a five star gentleman, although he never gives more than three.

  As the harshest food critic in the business, he is feared and respected by the top chefs of the city. On a standard assignment, Sandy visits the experimental restaurant The House of Jacob, run by chef extraordinaire, Jac
ob Enfer.

  What Sandy will experience is a journey beyond flavour and texture, a meal that will change his very existence. The worst thing about the food here is the person eating it.

  Critique. It's here to make your life better… or much, much worse.