Chapter 43 43. Remembering The Pain!
Saintilia’s POV
It was a day much like today, late in the afternoon, with the air holding that specific stillness that precedes the twilight. The sun was hanging low in the sky, stretching long, dark shadows from the trees across the riverbank, creating dappled patterns on the water’s surface. I stood by the water's edge holding a fishing rod, the wood worn smooth by my grip, though my heart was not truly in it. My mind was tangled in a story Jonas had told me many times: a tale of how he used to fish here with my mother, Paulette, laughing together as the line pulled taut.
Today marked their wedding anniversary, a date that was considered sacred in our home, a holy day of remembrance that he and I observed with quiet reverence. I had come here hoping to catch a fish, intending to prepare his favorite meal, the one he always said tasted like love. It was my way to honor their memory and, more than anything, to feel his presence whenever I was troubled. To remember the joy that used to light up his eyes before his down spiral where alcohol became his best friend and greatest enemy.
The river moved sluggishly here, the current barely perceptible as it wound its way toward the sea. I watched a dragonfly dart over the surface, its wings catching the dying light, and I wondered if my mother had stood in this exact spot, watching the same flight. The thought made me feel connected to her, a spiritual bridge across the years, but it also deepened the hollow ache in my chest.
However, as the afternoon light began to soften and the sky turned a bruised purple, a strange anxiety tightened in my chest, creating a pressing need to be home that I could not explain. I realized I had taken longer than I intended, having stopped at Adeline’s to borrow some herbs for cooking. I lingered too long in gossip and pleasantries. I did not expect to find Jonas there; he had told me he would be working late at the mill, a tedious shift that often kept him until past sundown. Yet, as I approached our house, I saw the small oil lamp burning inside, a beacon in the growing gloom. Its faint, flickering glow seeped through the window, casting shifting, distorted shapes upon the walls. The shadows seemed to move with a life of their own, dancing in a macabre ballet that caused my breath to catch in my throat, a sense of foreboding pricking at my skin.
The wooden door, usually sturdy and inviting, stood slightly ajar, creaking softly in the breeze. I pushed it open wider, the hinges groaning in protest, and the smell of the house hit me. It was a mixture of stale tobacco smoke, dust, and the faint, lingering scent of the herbs I had crushed earlier that morning. It was the smell of home, yet tonight it felt alien, charged with a static energy that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Jonas?" I called out, my voice echoing through the quiet as I set the gourds down on the table, the sound hollow in the emptiness. I called again, louder this time, a tremor of fear creeping into my tone, but there was still no answer. My initial thought was one of weary familiarity: he was drunk again. That was a common enough occurrence, a predictable and depressing script that played out all too often in our lives, a tragedy we had both learned to endure.
But then, a cold dread gripped me, making my heart stutter violently in my chest like a trapped bird. Jonas passing out was not unusual, but the circumstances of this specific day were far too significant for that lapse. He had always made a solemn pledge to remain sober for their anniversary; it was our tradition, a sacred and unbreakable pact meant to honor Paulette’s memory with a clear mind and a full, untroubled heart. He had never broken it before, not once in all the years since she passed.
The silence felt like a betrayal of that vow, transforming my annoyance into a crushing, immediate fear that something was horribly, irreversibly wrong. Hesitantly, I stepped into the main room, my heart hammering against my ribs. There he was, lying on the cold, hard floor, motionless. A part of me tried to dismiss the sight, clinging to the familiar script we knew so well, telling myself he was just sleeping off a bottle, but a sinking feeling, heavy and cold, was already pulling at my insides, dragging me down into despair.
I called his name once more, a whisper pleading for the gruff reply that would break the spell, a groan or a curse that would signal life. Silence. I rushed to his side, my hands shaking his shoulders, my tone shifting from concern to desperate panic. "Jonas, wake up," I begged, shaking him harder. There was no response, only a profound and terrifying stillness that terrified me to my core. My mind flashed to our usual ritual: the cup of water I would toss on him, his subsequent sputter and angry grumble, the way he would push me away and slur a promise to do better, with the smell of sour liquor on his breath.
I grabbed the water jug, my hands trembling so violently I nearly spilled it, and poured water over his face. The droplets traced the lines of his still features, dripping from his nose and chin, but there was no sputter, no angry swipe, no intake of breath, just a chilling, absolute stillness. That push was our signal; his irritation was the proof of life. But the push never came. This time, the script was broken. Everything was horribly, irrevocably different. I sat there for a long time, the water jug slipping from my fingers and rolling across the floor, the sound deafening in the quiet room.
The sound of the jug rolling snapped me into reality. Suddenly, panic seized me with claws of iron, squeezing the air from my lungs until I thought I might suffocate. I shook him over and over, my grip bruising his shoulders, my mind refusing to accept what my eyes clearly showed. It was a nightmare, a grotesque joke that had gone too far. I screamed for him to wake up, my tears falling onto his shirt, dampening the fabric with a sorrow that was too heavy for my small frame to contain.
Each cry was a desperate plea to the heavens, bargaining with any force that might listen to undo what was now permanent, to rewind time just by an hour, just by a minute. But he remained still, his chest still, his face devoid of the color that once defined him. Blinded by shock and a grief so sharp it felt like a physical wound, I fled the house. I ran through the twilight, my feet stumbling over roots and stones, driven by a singular, frantic purpose to find help.
Continue………..