Page 4 of Hellebore

The officer inhales sharply, her brow dipping the slightest touch, as though readying herself to continue.

“H–” she glances at the shadow rippling at the doorway, my sister still listening. “She had a pentagram carved into her chest,” she whispers, leaning closer to my mother so my sister can’t hear.

My chest tightens; all the air sucked from the room.

“A what?” mother asks too loudly, her mouth agape.

“A pentagram. A symbol. Often for Satanism or The Occult,” the officer says carefully. “Sometimes, teenagers use the concept as a form of rebellion. But we have to rule out anyone else she may have been linked to, if this were a group of people.” She narrows her eyes at my mother expectantly.

“I–”

“No,” my mother interjects. “Well… perhaps. She did start to stray from her teachings that winter.”

I clench the linen of my pant legs, my fingertips tingling with lack of blood. How dare she. Francesca was not an occultist. She was trying to find herself, outside of what we’d been taught.

The seeds of the teachings enter our systems as mere babes, ripe for suggestion. They push us and swaddle us with the concepts, never allowing the outside world to tell us otherwise. She just wanted to know more about the world.

I glare at my mother, anger boiling in my chest. My limbs heat, my head spinning, and I swipe at a crystal ornament hanging on an outer branch of the pine tree. It glides through the air, in slow motion, my mother’s eyes widening. Until it lands on the floor, smashing, sending fragments of glass across every surface.

And yet,

she won’t look at me.

I

dream of her every night. Of her footprints in the fresh mud that skirts the pebbled path. Of the secrets we once shared, and now will never get to share again. Of how our lives circulated around that secret place covered by trees, in the woods where she was buried. That place cradled us through our adolescence, sheltering us, allowing us freedom to grow. The freedom to explore.

There’s a part of me, buried deep inside my ribs, that knew she was gone. That knew our connection had been severed, our love having frayed irrevocably as I scrambled for purchase in reality.

Memories of that time are swathed in rippling darkness, the edges not as crisp as they used to be. And when I try to recall the last time I saw Francesca, my mind fractures into images of falling leaves and upturned earth. Of rotting mushrooms and blood red skies. Of salty tears and gasping breaths.

Mother barely blinked towards me after the officers left yesterday. The invasion of them in our home, an insult.

We don’t get visitors out here. Only the neighbours who travel through the woodland to each other, sharing crops and food supplies. The roads in and out aren’t even sealed. Only the elder men allowed to utilise vehicles for supply runs.

“Isabel,” mother calls from the kitchen, dried orange and cinnamon scents billowing through the house. “Come and help me finish these cookies for the Gallows’!”

Sugary sweet inflection, bitter heart. I shuffle into the room, shadowing my little sister, stifling a sneeze as the smell of spices consumes me.

Isabel settles behind the bench covered in flour, her eyes bright as stars – a gift of innocence that my mother tries her hardest to corrupt with her scripture.

“What did the police want?” Isabel asks.

“Isabel, you know what they wanted. You were eavesdropping, unsubtly I might add.” She glances at Isabel sideways. “I gave you the gift of life, and you repay me by not allowing privacy in my own home. Be respectful.”

Gift. What a gift it was, never seeing anyone. Isabel and I stuck. Cooking, sewing, sleeping, repeating. And now, my only friend is dead.

Isabel slumps, her head bowing. “Can you please tell me what they said, was it about…”

“It was about Francesca,” my mother tells her. “She was found dead.”

My sister glances up with her mouth agape and tears in her eyes. I want to comfort her, but the grief is so thick in my own blood that the words won’t pass my tongue.

“They found Francesca dead?” she questions, her throat dry, the sound rough.

“Yes,” My mother confirms, no emotion in her words. “Buried and forgotten in the woods.”

“Mother!”