Chapter 8- Hopelessness

The next couple of days I moped.

I was thinking and so I kept my head under the covers, blocking out the constant knocking at the door, and concentrating on the facts that I couldn’t reach; every atom of knowledge was gold dust in my fingers, slipping away before it divulged its precious secrets. It was moping in a depressed way, and I did indeed feel the cold grip of death poking at my duvet. There was a lot of unhappiness floating around in my head. I felt sad at the silence that my husband had left; it was unsettling and confusing.

Surely, I should feel joy, not the dull agony of pain and disappointment?

Then again, I shouldn’t have expected to get anywhere in my first investigation.

By mid-morning I was up and about, but the knocking on my front door continued. It was actually quite headache inducing.

Finally, I could ignore it no longer; the pounding was ongoing and frustrating.

I gathered myself up in my warm dressing-gown, and stormed downstairs, throwing open the front door with an unsatisfied grunt. It felt as though I was suffering a hangover; all my senses seemed heightened in great pain.

 

It was Steven, and he was standing there looking grand at ten o clock in the morning. That was a change from seeing him, growing up, still asleep at that time.

“Yes, Steven?”
”You haven’t been answering your phone, mum.”

Not any greeting, no, just a question about my phone.

I rolled my eyes, and scowled at him.

“It’s probably run out of battery. I’m not really bothered, at the moment.”

“I’ve been ringing you.”

“Well, evidently.” My headache was starting to get a little worse. I rubbed my pounding forehead, watching my son closely. There was still something on his mind, and it didn’t look like he was going to go away.

“Alright, come on in. Don’t you have a lecture today, or something?”

“Nah, free day,” Steven inspected me as he slumped down onto the sofa, “Mum, are you okay?”

“I’ve just got a headache, don’t worry about me.”

“But, I do. You’re my mother. And after father-”

“Your father’s death has nothing to do with anything I might be feeling. He’s gone. End of the conversation,” I sighed. If I was trying to hide anything from Stephen, I was failing.

“And…?”

“Steven! Please lay off with all your questions!” I yelled across the room. He put his hands up in defense.

“I’m sorry. I actually came here to tell you that George has been trying to reach you. He read about father’s…incident in the paper and is coming here.”

“What? When?”

“Today.”

The End

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