by Belle Brooks
“Abigail, it never ceases to amaze me how much I know you. This is exactly how I expected you to react.”
“Well, lardy dar,” I spit.
“Watch your manners.” Her tone is laced with authority.
“So how long am I going to be visiting for?”
“About five minutes, which is why I need you to pull yourself together and listen.”
I nod before finding a somewhat reasonable composure.
“When you get home, you have to remember everything I’ve shown you. It’s important. No wasting your opportunities, no blaming others, take responsibility.
“Mar-Mar, the fall…Marcus. Is that real?”
“It most definitely is, my dear. This is how you remember. This is how your memories become reinstated. I had a favour coming to me—”
“Mar-Mar, are you dead?”
Her head tilts sideways. Her mouth widens and she whispers, “Yes.”
“No. When?” My composure is lapsing as I sob.
“The early morning that you decided to drink yourself stupid and pass out on your best friend’s front lawn, Abigail, is the day I came to be here. It was for the best.”
“That was in June, Mar-Mar—it’s November now. Have I been asleep for like six months?”
“No, you goose. It’s only been two days you’ve been out cold. You’ll get all the details when you get back.”
“Why is it November here?”
“Because it is when you believe your curse started.” She says this as if it makes perfect sense. “When you go home, it will be June again, Abigail. This is your chance to make your life right, to find yourself and then find Marcus. My final gift to you.”
“No, this can’t be happening. Mar-Mar, you can’t leave me—”
“Sssh…I know, sweetheart.” Mar-Mar holds me in her arms and kisses my shoulder. “Stop panicking, I’m happy here. I lived a beautiful life. I saw. I felt. I did. I have the peace I was afforded here. I went so peacefully, early as the morning, warm in my bed, sound asleep, just like I’d always hoped.”
Snorting breaths, I can’t seem to catch any. So many tears flow from my eyes as I’m held tightly in Mar-Mar’s embrace.
None of this has happened and now I have to go back to the very beginning of my demise and start again. I’m too tired to do it.
“You’re not tired, Abigail, you’re newly bloomed.”
“Hey, how did you—”
“I can hear your thoughts. I can feel your dreams. I can also see your future. I’m never going to be gone.”
“You promise?”
Mar-Mar runs her fingers through my hair before she says, “You have my word.”
“I love you, Mar-Mar,” I whisper, frightened.
“I know you do and I love you, too. It’s time to go home now, sweetheart. You see, it’s just turned midnight.” Red numbers flash all around us, invading the white. “You have your gift now. You have to go.”
“I don’t want to leave you.” I hold her tight. They will have to pry my fingers from her.
“Goodbye, Abigail.” Mar-Mar kisses me, then pulls away and no matter how hard I try to hold on to her, I’m moved. Leaning forward, she kisses my lips.
“No. No. No,” I chant as her sweet smile dances through my head and she begins to walk backwards. Many silhouettes appear from behind her. At first they’re blurred, but swiftly they come into focus.
“Dad,” I yell just before my body begins falling in the same way it did the day I slipped off that cliff face and forgot who Marcus Klein ever was.
But now, I’ll remember.
Out of the Haze
Beep… Beep…Beep.
What is that incessant noise? The one that keeps sounding off like an alarm.
“Abigail.” My name is delivered from a deep, muffled voice.
Dad.
“Open your eyes for us,” he says again, his voice still sounding muffled.
“Dad…Daddy.” These words are delivered softly from lips that feel like leather at first lick of my tongue.
Nobody answers.
“Oh, thank the heavens above.” Mum sobs as her hand squeezes mine so tight I wonder if blood supply is reaching my fingertips.
“Mum,” I whisper when I hear these words.
Two hazy faces appear a short distance from mine. Squinting, I try to adjust my sight.
“Hey, you’re back.”
Sammy.
“Why isn’t she speaking?” The panic in Mum’s voice is extreme.
“Give her a minute. She’s just coming to.” There’s that deep voice again.
I flick my head left.
“Abigail, I’m Doctor Herbert. You’re in the hospital.”
It’s not my dad, his Irish accent a dead giveaway. Disappointment and sadness fill me, the hope of seeing him again now gone.
My eyes scan around the room, taking in the plain and sterile surroundings. The man claiming to be my doctor stands on my right. He’s looking at a machine.
Mum and Sammy cuddle each other on my left. Concern is etched in their creased foreheads. Studying their faces, I’m alerted to reddened cheeks and stained faces…faces stained from tears.
“Water,” I croak. My throat feels tight and dry.
Mum reaches for a jug on a table by the bed, and that’s when I see it, perched in the middle of that table—a small box gifted to me in a dream, but here it is right here, right now. But how?
The red velvet box, it exists…does that mean Marcus does, too?
Was it all a dream? Where’s Marcus?
A massive thank you from the bottom of my heart to: Kylee Harris, Liz Lovelock, Kirsty Roworth, Caroline Dayas, Jakarra Adams, Natalya Bryan, Allyson Sinclair, Shaelene Adams, Donna Martin and Tracey Davis Zelukovic. You ladies rock my world.
To my husband Michael, who I love dearly. It’s always been you baby.
To my wonderful team of talented and creative people: Karen Harper, Emily A Lawrence, Max Henry and Tracey Weston. You ladies have a talent beyond belief and I’m so grateful to share this journey with you.
Lastly, I’d like to thank everybody who has helped to promote my work, and to all the readers. Without the readers there’d be no purpose for these stories.
Belle Brooks is a former business manager, wife, and mother of three, living in Queensland, Australia. For as long as she can remember, writing has been a major part of her life, bringing her peace and comfort in the arms of her fictional characters. Never planning to have her work published, she focused her attention on her career and family. That is until she finally found the courage to allow her words to become public for others to enjoy, due mainly to the encouragement and support of those who love her. The series, Thirty Days, is her first publication.
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