Bodach

Hello.
Hello.
Wake up.
Why won’t she wake up?

I glanced around, unease curling in my stomach. The staircase creaked with ominous whispers. No, Joey. Don’t come in. Don’t let him find you like this. Wake up!

The door creaked open, revealing a dim morning light that felt more like a shroud than a blessing. What’s happening?

“Mom,” he crawls onto the bed, the comforter heavy and suffocating. He picks at your face, twirling a strand of your hair as if trying to coax you back to life. “Momma,” he whispers, trembling with a mix of innocence and fear. “Bath time.” He shakes your shoulder, the touch sticky with the remnants of a dream. A droplet of drool dangles from his finger like a grotesque charm. “Yuck!” he exclaims, smearing it across his shirt as he curls beside you, a child ensnared in confusion.

His gaze drifts, emptiness giving way to a flicker of realization. Slowly, he reaches for your eyelid, the left one, lifting it with a delicate curiosity.

“Joey!” A figure bursts into the room, a shadow against the flickering light. He jumps back, pointing at you. “Momma!”

“Honey,” the woman in white looms over you, her hair pulled taut into a severe ponytail, a mask clinging to her face like a second skin. Who is she? “Let mommy sleep. She’s had a long night. Come now, bath time.”

“Momma,” he pleads, inching closer. Her gaze flickers between the boy, you, and the sinister bottle resting near the lampstand.

“She’s asleep, Joey,” the woman says, her voice a melody devoid of warmth. “Come with me.”

He looks to you, and you remain, a silent specter in the fading light. The woman scoops him up, tucking the comforter around your form as if to cradle you in an eternal slumber. “Mommy needs rest,” she murmurs, her eyes narrowing on the bottle like a hawk watching its prey.

What did you take? A flicker of dread ignites within me. But, no, I sigh with a false sense of relief. You should be waking up soon. I imagine following them out of the room, a ghost trailing behind.

“Everything okay?” A man in black looms in the doorway, glasses perched precariously on his nose, a briefcase clutched like a talisman. Who is he?

“He found him upstairs,” she replies, her voice laced with an urgency that echoes through the hollow space. “But nothing. Momma is just asleep, isn’t that so?” She speaks to Joey, but her eyes never leave the man.

“Where’s Whittaker?” he asks, a name that sends ripples of dread through me. Whittaker? I scour my memory, but the shadows obscure everything. When did your home become a stage for strangers?

“He’s not answering, but he should be on his way. You need to move fast before people start asking questions.”

He nods towards the staircase, his gloved hands emerging from the shadows of his briefcase. White. Latex. Just like hers.

The air thickens with an unspoken tension, the walls closing in, trapping secrets in their crevices.

“Momma,” Joey screams, the sound piercing through the stillness.

I look at him. Fear twists in his wide eyes. I leap towards you, and its peace that has found you.

“Momma,” This time his voice erupts louder. The woman silences him with a cruel pinch.

“Mommy’s sleeping. If you wake her, bad things will happen, understand?” Her voice drips with menace as she tightens her grip.

Upstairs, the gentleman presses against the closet doors, yanking each one open as if the very answers he seeks might leap out. What is he looking for? What did I take? Was I someone of importance? I look to you, begging for answers, but you remain frozen, a hollow figure lost in twilight. I feel myself beginning to fade.

Help her. I wave my hands in the gentleman's face, but he walks through me, exhilaration dancing in his eyes as he pulls out a small casket, no larger than a shoebox. A flicker of recognition stirs within me, but the memory slips away like smoke. And then there are words, voices colliding in a cacophony. I rush back to your side. It’s faint, failing, but still alive.

Help her. Get up. You must say goodbye. You must—

“You’re a single woman, living in grandeur with a three-year-old who has all the help he needs. You don’t get to be sad,” Becca scolded, her voice harsh and unforgiving. “You made your choices, Lucy. You didn’t want the marriage, so you left. You didn’t like the man, so you took full custody. You didn’t have the time, so you hired the help. That’s what you do. You’re a problem solver. You choose to be alone to fix your own problems. It’s like you were meant to be single. An individual. Forever.”

I saw myself—standing, moving, but who was she? The name whispered through my mind, familiar yet distant.

“Gladys,” she looked up from the table, relief washing over her face. “I shouldn’t be the only friend giving Becca grief. She’s having a bad day.”

“And you’re giving her grief about it?” Concern dawned in her eyes. She sees me.

“It’s okay, let’s just—” You attempt to brush it off, but the tension hangs heavy in the air.

“What’s wrong?” Gladys pulls a chair closer, lifting your face to meet her gaze. She sees me, hovering behind you like a shadow. “You’re not in danger, are you?”

“No,” you break eye contact, the denial slipping from your lips. “Never. Why would you think that?”

“You’re broken.”

“It’s just a bad day. We all have one; most of us don’t make a meal out of it,” Becca rolls her eyes, dismissing the very air between you as if it’s insignificant. Did you call it? Did I say something? The memory is elusive, slipping through my fingers.

“It’s nothing,” you shake your head. “Becca’s right. I problem-solve. I shouldn’t have called you out like this so urgently. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. The word echoes ominously in the void. My chest tightens, a vise of anguish. You’re lying. I can’t breathe. It hurts. Can you see it? The hole? It’s bleeding. What is this?

“You’re crying,” Gladys points out, her brow furrowing with concern.

“What?”

She hands you a tissue. “Something’s wrong. Tell us. Tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

I break. I shatter. I disappear. I’m gone—

“We can’t speculate the cause of death just yet. It could be several things, but you’ll be informed as soon as we get the results,” a man in uniform states, his voice cold and clinical. “Did she live alone?”

“She’s a single mom,” Becca sighs, sympathy lacing her words as she ruffles Joey’s hair with her manicured nails.

“Who was with the boy?”

“She has help, but I guess tonight she took some time off. Am I right, Joey?” She bends down, but fear locks his tongue.

“He’s in shock; it’s normal. He found the body, but who called it in?”

“Excuse me?”

“A woman called, reporting the incident. Was it you?”

No. Confusion clouds her thoughts as she returns to Joey’s side.

“Were you home alone? Did mommy have a friend over?”

Fear-stricken, he remains silent, a statue of dread.

What happened to me? I look at myself through Joey’s eyes. Why couldn’t I be happy? When did it hurt? How does it heal?

Your eyes shoot open, and Becca screams. Joey cries, the sound echoing like a lament. Shock envelops the men in uniform. You look through me, your voice a whisper that reverberates through the room.

“I’m ready.”