052 ][ VIDEO
[These videos play on a loop from 10am until 5:23pm, at which point they shut off abruptly. No replies come before the shut off.]
Memory One
The room is golden with hazy afternoon light as it filters through half closed blinds and across to the couch where the woman is laying. Head tipped back, her fair hair spreads along silk cushions, and she might be asleep but for the rhythmic tapping of manicured nails (one broken) against the table pulled up to her knees. The table also holds a glass, empty except a slice of lime, and ice that chinks against the sides.
Distant, a door slams. Someone calls out for, “Mum?”
Hurried footsteps, and a boy pushes through the tall oak door and onto the scene. No older than seventeen, in blue uniform knee shorts and a blazer with piped insignia on the breast pocket. He swings down a backpack, which sinks into plush carpet, and repeats quieter, now that he can see her, “Mum?”
She doesn’t look up, but her eyelashes shiver against fine cheekbones and she asks, “Where have you been?”
Her voice is accented, European, harsh, but not enough to hide the slur.
“Chamber choir, mum. It’s a Wednesday.”
The boy walks around the couch, facing her. It doesn’t place him any more in the woman’s eyeline than before. There’s no movement behind closed eyelids and, from this angle, one side of her hair is mussed and sticky with something.
The boy continues. “Monsignor Appoli is leading another retreat. It’s for six days this time and it’s... we’ll... I’ll give you the forms in the morning. Have you had anything to eat?”
He watches for a while, but gets no reply. After a minute, her fingertips stop their drumming.
The boy vanishes, to come back ten minutes later carrying a plate with toast and peanut butter, and an apple. He puts a hand on her shoulder to wake her.
Memory Two
It’s dark, in the same room. Just as the eye begins making shapes of the dark, an electric light flicks on. The same boy, dressed for bedtime. The woman is still in place, sprawled further back than when we saw her last. The plate on the table beside her contains toast and an apple, untouched. The ice in the glass has melted.
The boy goes over to her again. This time, crouching down, he retrieves one green glass bottle from under the table. Tipping the woman forward, with care to support her should she fall, he pulls a second from behind the cushion she leant on, and feels along the rest, to be certain.
He leaves the room, and there’s the sound of running water. When he returns, both bottles are empty of their dregs, and he returns each, carefully, to its original place.
Lifting the woman’s legs onto the couch, he removes her shoes and then goes again, fetching a blanket to tuck in around her. As he does, she shifts and complains, something not English, reaching a hand up blindly to grope for his face. He lets her find his jaw, and she presses four manicured nails and one broken against his skin.
For a moment, unfocused blue eyes open and meet others their exact match for shade. She smiles, and lays back, slipping away again.
“Rowan,” she mumurs to herself.
The boy freezes for exactly one beat, then bends to kiss her forehead. The electric light flicks off again as he makes his way back up the stairs.
Memory One
The room is golden with hazy afternoon light as it filters through half closed blinds and across to the couch where the woman is laying. Head tipped back, her fair hair spreads along silk cushions, and she might be asleep but for the rhythmic tapping of manicured nails (one broken) against the table pulled up to her knees. The table also holds a glass, empty except a slice of lime, and ice that chinks against the sides.
Distant, a door slams. Someone calls out for, “Mum?”
Hurried footsteps, and a boy pushes through the tall oak door and onto the scene. No older than seventeen, in blue uniform knee shorts and a blazer with piped insignia on the breast pocket. He swings down a backpack, which sinks into plush carpet, and repeats quieter, now that he can see her, “Mum?”
She doesn’t look up, but her eyelashes shiver against fine cheekbones and she asks, “Where have you been?”
Her voice is accented, European, harsh, but not enough to hide the slur.
“Chamber choir, mum. It’s a Wednesday.”
The boy walks around the couch, facing her. It doesn’t place him any more in the woman’s eyeline than before. There’s no movement behind closed eyelids and, from this angle, one side of her hair is mussed and sticky with something.
The boy continues. “Monsignor Appoli is leading another retreat. It’s for six days this time and it’s... we’ll... I’ll give you the forms in the morning. Have you had anything to eat?”
He watches for a while, but gets no reply. After a minute, her fingertips stop their drumming.
The boy vanishes, to come back ten minutes later carrying a plate with toast and peanut butter, and an apple. He puts a hand on her shoulder to wake her.
Memory Two
It’s dark, in the same room. Just as the eye begins making shapes of the dark, an electric light flicks on. The same boy, dressed for bedtime. The woman is still in place, sprawled further back than when we saw her last. The plate on the table beside her contains toast and an apple, untouched. The ice in the glass has melted.
The boy goes over to her again. This time, crouching down, he retrieves one green glass bottle from under the table. Tipping the woman forward, with care to support her should she fall, he pulls a second from behind the cushion she leant on, and feels along the rest, to be certain.
He leaves the room, and there’s the sound of running water. When he returns, both bottles are empty of their dregs, and he returns each, carefully, to its original place.
Lifting the woman’s legs onto the couch, he removes her shoes and then goes again, fetching a blanket to tuck in around her. As he does, she shifts and complains, something not English, reaching a hand up blindly to grope for his face. He lets her find his jaw, and she presses four manicured nails and one broken against his skin.
For a moment, unfocused blue eyes open and meet others their exact match for shade. She smiles, and lays back, slipping away again.
“Rowan,” she mumurs to herself.
The boy freezes for exactly one beat, then bends to kiss her forehead. The electric light flicks off again as he makes his way back up the stairs.