Patty's Mum

This, in fact, is an illustrated short story - I couldn't find another way of combining text and pictures on DA.  

    A narrow sliver of light that broke through drawn blackout curtains revealed a footprint in half-squashed lipstick fully out of its tube, a water glass on its side in a drying puddle, partially soaked up by a crumpled tissue, and bright patches of clothing strewn on the floor.
   ‘Patty, you’ll be late for class!’  Her mother’s voice was rapidly approaching from downstairs and Patricia Imagen, known as Pat to her friends and as Patty to her mother, sat up in panic.  Her head was throbbing, her make-up was smeared and there was no way she would be able to have a shower, get dressed and make it to her lecture.  
    ‘And even if I did – what would be the point?’ thought Pat.  ‘I wouldn’t be able to remember anything with that hangover.  Rats!  And, to top it all, mum is coming, bringing with her the attendant guilt trip.  I hope it doesn’t set her off crying again…  Oh, rats, here we go!’
    The door opened quietly and Pat’s mother put her head slowly around the corner.  She took in the state of the room and her daughter and her mouth slackened for a moment.  That half-drunk disgustingly dishevelled woman in smudged make-up was a changeling, an impostor, like ones in those horrifying fairy-tales, it couldn’t possibly be her little girl!  But it was.  Of course it was – here was that helpless expression…  Her little girl needed her.  With a sigh Patty’s mother opened the door fully and entered the room.  She mopped up the puddle and refilled the water glass.  It was emptied gratefully in one gulp and she refilled it again.  She picked up the clothes from the floor and put them in the washing basket, wrinkling her nose at the faint smell of sick mixed with stale beer.  She sent Patty to take a shower while she went downstairs to make her breakfast.  Full English, with extra paprika and plenty of coffee – that works best for hangovers.  Mike used to love her English breakfast… He didn’t have breakfast the day he died – they told her the unit was attacked by guerillas in the night, his tent was at the edge of the camp and he was one of the first to die, his throat cut with a machete… They killed half of the unit before the alarm was raised, slaughtered them like animals.  THEY were worse than animals – killing people who tried to help their country… She interrupted the unwelcome train of thought and called Patty impatiently.

    Reluctantly, Pat shuffled down the stairs.  She was feeling guilty, angry at herself for upsetting her mother and angry at her mother for making her feel guilty.  It was a mess.  Ever since her brother was killed in action two years ago, mum had been barely holding it together.  It was as if her grief filled her to overflowing and there was no space left for love.  Pat, who was always the favourite, mummy’s golden girl, not a tear-away like her brother (always in trouble for something or other), no longer felt loved.  Somehow, after Mike’s death he became more important than her.  She resented that and felt guilty about her anger.  It was not mum’s fault, that’s for sure!  She had been trying hard, going through the motions of the daily routine, crying mostly when she thought Patty wasn’t looking. She never talked about Mike.  And she started sleep-walking.  Pat worried about that – the bedrooms were on the second floor and she could fall down the stairs.  She convinced her mother to go see a doctor, which didn’t seem to do any good.  Pat didn’t feel at home any more, her house was filled with death, sadness, guilt and anger.  But she couldn’t move either – she was all that her mother had left.  Without her the grief would take over and mum would wither and die, she was quite sure of that.  So, she escaped as much as she could without actually leaving.
    ‘I can go to the mall with Maggie after breakfast – she probably missed the morning lecture as well, she was even worse off than I… what was in that cocktail? Never mind, we can have a wander-round and go to an afternoon lecture.  That will get me out of the house and into the fresh air.  And we won’t have to spend the rest of the day with mum, trying to avoid each other’s eyes,’ the idea cheered Pat a bit and she quickly finished her breakfast.  
    ‘Thank you, mum, the breakfast was great!  I am going to meet Maggie for a walk and go to school with her after lunch.  We can still make Chemistry in the afternoon.  I’ll see you later!’
    ‘See you soon,’ was a listless reply.

    It was a good day.  As expected, Maggie was at home, nursing a hangover.  Since her parents were out at work and they had the house to themselves, the girls decided to stay in.  They chatted about nothing much, watched a show and ate ice-cream for lunch.  They actually made it to the Chemistry lecture – which was a relief, as Pat’s intermittent attendance could lead to her failing the class.  
Pat was fully intending to go home after the lecture, but then, when Maggie mentioned that there was a party tonight at one of the campus fraternities, she not so much wavered as grabbed the excuse with both hands and run with it.  There were to be lights, and drinks, and laughter…  Also, Charlie was coming – and she quite liked him.  He was quiet and clever.  After she missed the third Math class last week, he helped her out with homework.  As they were talking, she had a feeling that he fancied her and was steeling himself to ask her out.  Meeting at a party would make it easier for him.  Pat phoned home to tell her mum that she’ll be out late, feeling even happier about not going home after hearing her despondent reply. Never mind, the night was young and so was she.
    It was a good party.  Pat spent most of it talking to Charlie.  He was easy too talk to and she told him things about herself she didn’t herself realise – and about mum and Mike…  They talked and kissed and Charlie walked her home.  She crept up the stairs to her bedroom, almost buoyant with happiness, unconsciously hugging the warm feeling to herself, protecting it from the grief and misery filling the house.  A sense of relief flooded her when she closed her bedroom door. Mum was still asleep.  Pat put on her favourite nightie, snuggled into the clean sheets (mum must have changed the bedding today) and drifted off to sleep, smiling happily to herself, filled with the warmth she so carefully preserved.

    To her great surprise, Pat was still feeling happy when she was woken up in the morning with the inevitable “Patty, you’ll be late for class!”
    ‘Coming, mum,’ she yelled, pulled on a relatively clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt, brushed her teeth hurriedly and run down the stairs two-at-a-time, jumping over the last four steps.  She felt as if she was weightless, floating onto the landing like a feather.  She swallowed her breakfast and, under the surprised and alarmed gaze of her mother, left the house in time for the morning lecture, the first time this term.  
    There was not much point in going to the lecture this morning either – Pat barely noticed where she was and what she was doing, let alone what the professor was droning on about in front of a busy whiteboard.  She was supposed to meet Charlie for dinner at 7.  The evening was as much of a happy blur as the day.  Pat stopped at home to shower and change and run off after giving her mother an absent-minded peck on the cheek.  She met Charlie at the restaurant.  They ate, and walked, and talked, and kissed, and walked and talked again.  It was past midnight by the time Pat sneaked upstairs, grateful for the fact that her mum was asleep.  She couldn’t really remember what exactly they talked about with Charlie, but remembered the feeling of openness, comfort and warmth.  She felt understood, loved and accepted.  She snuggled into the feeling and fell asleep.

    At four in the morning the neighbours were awakened by screams for help. They tried the door, but it was locked.  They phoned the police and broke down the door.  By that time the house was silent.  The first floor was dark, with nothing out of place.  Doubting if they were doing the right thing, they went upstairs, lighting the way with a torch.  One never knows were the light switches are in other people’s houses.  Only when they reached upstairs landing did they hear quiet sobbing from the bedroom on the right.  The door was open.  Patty’s mum was sitting on the floor by the bed, sobbing quietly.  Strikingly, even in the pale starlight, most of the small room was splatted with blood.  Pat’s body was lying on the bed, with her face unrecognisable from several axe blows.  The axe was lying on the floor.  
    ‘What happened?’ a horrified neighbour instinctively put his arms around the sobbing woman, who collapsed gratefully into them.
    ‘Guerillas.  They were going to kill her.  One of them was on top of her.  I had to protect my daughter…’

    As the dreadful realization hit, the neighbour recoiled instinctively and Patty’s mother fell to the floor.

More stories can be found in my new collection, Modest Fiction at www.scarletline.com/ashepherd/…