It was the week before Christmas. For the sake the children, and her own sanity, Candice tried to put the events of the past three weeks behind her. She had a life to lead, and she wasn’t going to let a tame blackbird get in the way of rebuilding her future. There were explanations for all of the odd events that had recently taken place. Co-incidences, dreams even.
The house was a frenzy of activity. The Christmas tree was in place and the floor was strewn with ornaments and tinsel. ’Let me Mummy - let me ’ said Jack as he reached to plant a golden angel on a branch and toppled forward whilst his sister shrieked with laughter.
There was a thump on the door mat as a pile of Christmas cards fell through the letter box. Lily rushed to scoop them up. ’Let me open some Mummy - please’.
At the bottom of the pile was a letter. Candice felt sure she recognised the handwriting. It couldn’t be. Surely not. Her eye fell upon a letter ‘a’ in the address. Jimmy always made his a’s look like z’s. She had never seen anybody else do it. But the postmark said that it had been sent yesterday. Jimmy was buried weeks ago.
Suddenly those feelings began to well up inside her again. Feelings of despair. Of terror. Of lost love. Of hatred for what he was putting her through. She began shaking, and felt rage coming from deep inside her. As she walked toward the kitchen her legs turned to jelly and room began to spin. ‘You can’t do this to me Jimmy’ she whispered. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ’How DARE you do this to me Jimmy’.
She tumbled down onto a chair. Should she open it - should she throw it on the fire? No, it had to be opened. It may just give her a clue as to what the hell was going on.
It opened easily. Inside was piece of white note paper and a downy black feather. She unfolded it, wiped the tears from her eyes, and gradually focused on the three lines of typed words. Beneath them was a scratchy blotchy signature. As if it was written with a quill pen. She read the sentence over and over again, the rage building with every second that passed. She couldn’t believe what she was reading. Surely it was a joke. A practical joke. Some sick bastard was playing tricks with her mind . Just as he or she had almost every day since the day of the funeral. 'This can't be happening to me'
She read it again. Slowly. One word at a time.
‘My darling Candice - I have to tell you…………………..
‘Mummy mummy what’s the matter?’
Those were the last words she heard as she fell to the cold stone floor.
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