The End of the World Ch. 4 A Chance

Darcy became slowly conscious of the room around her. Sitting up gingerly she rubbed her eyes, trying to open them, but her eyelids felt leaden, sleep clinging to them in desperation. When she tried to look around she felt as if sand was blowing into her eyes. She rubbed again waiting for the feeling to pass, but it wouldn’t.

She rose, struggling, blinking, not able to feel the floorboards underneath her feet, but still she began to walk towards the door, her legs heavy. The few short steps felt like an eternity, the door floated strangely out of reach and she felt as if she was treading water.

Finally her hand closed around the door handle and she squeezed it, pushing at the door. It opened without difficulty and, relieved, she left her room, walking into the light.

She stepped into the kitchen and she immediately knew something wasn’t right. Looking around she tried to pin down why it felt wrong, but she couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around what. She was wide awake now, but still her thoughts seemed to be clouded.

The room glowed with candlelight, and warmth emanated from the fireplace, where flames flickered brightly against the dark stone, casting long, dancing shadows around the room. The cottage looked very different from what she knew it was supposed to, but she knew she had been here before.

She knew the baby would begin crying even before it happened. The sound tugged at her heart and she wanted to go toward it, but she was suddenly rooted to the spot, unable to move.

Someone came into the room; a young woman. She walked with graceful, confident steps and bent gently over the crib with a tender smile, cooing softly as she took the infant in her arms. Darcy watched her stroke the tiny face and whisper soothingly.

The baby quieted and his head slumped down into the crook of her neck as he fell asleep to the sound of her voice. Darcy listened to the lullaby’s moving melody with an aching deep inside. Quietly and careful not to wake him, the woman placed the sleeping baby back into his crib, rocking it gently, while the last soft tones of her song drifted into the shadows around them.

Then she turned around.

The woman’s eyes met hers and her face filled with terror. Darcy stood frozen, she wanted to speak, to calm her, but she had no voice with which to do it. Taking a stumbling step forward the world seemed to sway and dissolve around her.

The woman drew back, her mouth opened in a soundless scream, Darcy reached her hand towards her and grabbed onto air.

She woke up still fighting to find her voice.

Her room was bathed in a warm glow of the sunlight that flowed through the speckled glass of the window.

Darcy felt disoriented, her head swimming as she rolled ungracefully out of her bed and struggled up. A dull ache was settling at her temples. She stood swaying for a moment, trying to get her bearings and fighting against the inevitable headache.

The reality of morning seemed to take its time to reassert itself in her mind, the dream lingering even as the details of it vanished beyond memory, leaving only a strange disquiet. She tried in vain to recall what the dream had been about, but it was gone, still she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all too familiar.

Her clothes lay in a mess on the floor where she’d discarded them the night before. With a sigh she untangled her t-shirt and pulled it over her head. She rifled through her suitcase until she found her hairbrush and made two quick pigtails, hoping they’d be even.

Then she grabbed her jeans from the floor and as she pulled them on her phone fell out of her pocket. She quickly picked it up to check her messages, but just as the day before there wasn’t a single new one.

The disappointment was like acid in the back of her throat. She quickly went through her contacts and stopped when Rick’s number came up, her thumb hovering over the call button, but she couldn’t make herself press it, uncertainty snaked into her heart; what if he didn’t want to talk to her? What if she started crying?

Slowly she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

The kitchen was oddly silent, apart from a low persistent hum from the old refrigerator. Back in Bridgeport their mornings were always accompanied by the TV news and her father was almost always on the phone with someone while typing away at his computer. Now everything was still.

Her father didn’t look up when she came in, he slowly lifted the cup of instant coffee to take a long deliberate sip, leaving her standing awkwardly beside the table, then he quietly placed the cup back onto the table top, still not looking at her. She let out an exasperated sigh and he rolled his eyes slightly with a pointed curl of his lip.

“Morning, Darce,” he mumbled, moving the cup an inch further up on the table, looking intently at it. “There’s cereal.” His tone told her he knew very well what her feelings on cereal were, but that he didn’t care, still he sounded more tired than angry.

She sat down and picked up her spoon without answering him. They ate in silence. Darcy kept her eyes on her cereal. They were quickly turning to a soggy mess in the milk and she had to force herself to put the sticky flakes in her mouth. She added some more sugar, but that only made them worse.

Finally her father set his spoon down sharply on the table and leaned back in his chair; Darcy felt her breath catch in her throat and she sat stiffly, keeping her eyes on her bowl. The stillness in the room seemed to grow heavy.

“OK, just what were you thinking last night?!” His voice was grim and the sticky cereal she’d put in her mouth felt like a lump of glue; she shook her head, not sure what she was trying to deny. “I was worried sick!”

 

She couldn’t bring herself to say anything; guilt and anger came bubbling up and she felt her eyes burn with tears, but she pushed them back and forced her face to remain unaffected. Her father gave a sharp, short snarl and shoved his chair back, jarring the wobbly table.

“Done?” he muttered and snatched away her bowl even as she gave a small nod. He pushed the dishes into the sink with a bit too much force and she watched him wash them, his movements rough and curt and his jaw clenched tight. Biting her lower lip she fought to find something to say, but she didn’t know what.

He leaned on the edge of the sink as the water ran out, eyes staring blankly down the drain. She picked up the cereal and brought it over to the counter, he glanced at her and then he threw his hands up and left the kitchen.

Daniel was angry deep down, a dull, tired kind of anger that didn’t seem to have anywhere to go. A part of him wanted to yell and shout at her, to take her by the shoulders and shake her until he broke through that surly indifference, but another part just wanted to sit down and cry in defeat.

In an attempt to clear his head he started to unpack the moving boxes. Soon a jumble of personal affects were strewn out across the floor along with packing paper and he was lost in the task of figuring out what to do with it all.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand and he looked at it with a small confused frown was if he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do with it. He put the book in his hand down beside the buzzing phone, it’s vibrations were making it move towards the edge of the nightstand like it was being carried by tiny ants. With a  sigh he grabbed it and checked the caller ID.

“Dan, my man!!” a chipper voice squawked on the other end. “How’s it going?!” Daniel groaned inwards, Quentin was maybe the last person in the world he wanted to talk to right now.

“Hey, Quentin, I’m fine, but this isn’t the best...” he was promptly cut off as the voice continued, clearly on a roll and as he spoke Daniel began feeling sick to his stomach.

“Great! Great! Look, here’s the thing, I figured you had saved some stuff on that heiress broad who offed herself, but I can’t find anything in your files, didn’t you talk to her right before? I thought you had a lead, right?” Quentin’s voice seemed a distant drone and Daniel felt like he had tried to eat a mouthful of sand.

He could remember her face; he’d watched her when his story hit and the rest of the press swarmed like locust. He’d been there in their midst wanting a comment, demanding answers. He’d watched her as her life crumbled and the truth swept in like a deluge, drowning her.

“You there?” Quentin’s voice brought him back.

“Yeah, sure, look, I never got anything, ok? There’s nothing!” he found himself snarling angrily. “Just let it rest, it’s done, she’s dead!” he looked up and saw Darcy standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with questions. “I’ve got to go.” He didn’t bother to wait for a response before he hung up.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Didn’t I ever teach you not to eavesdrop?” he muttered, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“You used to say you never learned anything good if you didn’t!” she countered; he started to reply, but stopped himself. They watched each other awkwardly for awhile as the silence swelled and settled in like an unwelcome quest.

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore, Darce, I just...” he trailed off, too weary to continue.

One of her knuckles found its way to her lips and she worried absentmindedly at it with her teeth, like she sometimes did when she was upset, her eyes were trained on the floor and her whole body was tense with discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry, but I just want to go home!” her eyes lifted to meet his, reflecting the misery he felt and he forced a smile.

“It’ll be ok, you’ll see, give it a chance, honey,” he pleaded. She shook her head and he saw her begin to work herself up and knowing they were about to delve into the whole issue all over again he hurried to head her off. “Hey, what do you say we try and find someplace to have lunch that’s not crawling with spiders, huh?” That actually drew a tiny smile from her and she nodded.

TBC

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