You entered the room. Light scent of cinnamon twirling in the room, coaxing and teasing you with delicate dash of fresh summer Granny Smith apples’ aroma. A mass of white powder tinged with the transparent pale white crystal like fine particles sat on top of the kitchen counter. Your mother was busily preparing her ‘signature dish’. A strand of her hair came off from her ponytail. Carefully she dabbed her tiny sweat with the pad of her fragile thumb. The hard surface of the spatula bashed the apples and covered them in sultry brown sugar. One…two…three you counted under your breath. Her sluggish motion transfixed you as she cut and extracted the ripe juice from the small yellow thing that you called lemon. ‘You need to add a hint of lemon to apple. They’re friends,’ she once said and her words quickly turned into my personal gastronomic adage.
You ambled into the room and sunk into the very corner of your favourite sofa. Plush, plush…the soft feathery surface swiped against your bare skin. Velvety as your fingers trailed its smooth surface. You sat like a foetus and gradually fell deeper into the sofa that was laden with memories. The rustic sofa saw you growing up. From the crawling little monster to a perfect angel with perfect chiselled nose, cherubic eyes and bashful pink lips. The fine line of light ray entered the room through the windowpanes and swallowed the darkness that had been occupying the living room. Your feet played with the Afghan rug. Your grandmother’s huge handmade tapestry stood proudly across the room amidst the drowsy drawings from unknown artists. The room smelled nostalgic. Buzzing and reverberating noise from the kitchen perpetually gave you a tang of annoyance as your mother used the mixer to prepare her famous pastry crust.
Your fingers toyed with the little buttons on the remote and tapped one of them. The flat screen that erected vertically on the red Norman bricks near the fireplace flashed and a figure clad in blood-red turtleneck emerged from the blank screen. It was the daily horoscope.
‘And as for Virgos, you need to be careful today. Just beware of the lady in red.’
What was that supposed to mean? Spook clouded your vision field. Your face went pale as blood drained from your face. You arranged the words carefully before silently uttering it. Fear was so contagious that it turned your hands numb. Tounge tied. You shook your head in disbelief and laughed a frantic smile. The urge to swallow the bile was stopped. Your jaw dropped as you saw your Madonna tousled her dazzling gold hair. She let fan of hair fell slowly like waves over her shoulder. You squinted your eyes. Your heart leaped and you felt sick. Your mother was all red. Rosy red. Shrouded with fear, an awkward smile was carved. You felt sick in your stomach and could not help thinking of toring yourself out from the room. Claustraphobic. In feverish haste, the electric box was turned off. Secretly, you prayed to a god that you never believed in that you might cheat death. ‘It’s just a dumb horoscope.’ You bit your lips and tasted the copper liquid that seeped from the wound.
‘Here.’ Your mother passed you a slab of freshly baked apple pie. What used to be the most coveted companion to your stomach now flooded your taste buds with revolting and stale sensation. The warm liquid that oozed from every inch of the slice of what used to be the honey and never failed to make your mouth watered stabbed your teenage flesh as you chose to swallow it instead. You heard your mother’s gruff voice trespassing the social void. She was sobered but you felt queasy as she all of a sudden went to the faucet and disgorged whatever she had last night. The homy scent that lingered the room was then replaced by the stomach turning reek of the vomit. Fear and disgust swelled in you. Your mother stole an empty glance at you. The sharp knife that she held just now laid notoriously at the tip of the counter. Her knees were weak but she pushed herself to get up.
‘I’m sorry honey…I don’t think I’m feeling well.’
You nodded weakly.
‘Oppsss.’ The knife fell on the floor only an inch away from stabbing your feet. You gulped.
‘I’ll get it.’ Your mother said as she took the knife.
You put your lunch box into your bag and stormed out from the house as the yellow bus arrived. You know you would be safe but how would you face her later. Was the horoscope nothing but a just a piece of junk to scare a rotten soul? You did not know.
The school bus that was packed with school children raced to the school. Your heart beat along with the roaring engine. Chuckles and chats choired in the bus. A lorry skidded and it was out of control. Time to face your destiny.
It happened so fast. Death was evident. Strangely it could be quick too. Faster than when you received your first jab at the clinic. Bright red filled your vision. Maroon, crimson and wine red. You tried to scrutinize the scene in front of you. You did not see this coming. A familiar lady in red was in front of you. She was imprinted on the lorry. She grinned. She was the lady on your mother’s Scotch bottle.
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