Читать книгу Twice The Speed of Dark - Lulu Allison - Страница 13

It wrecks me. Here I am, propelled, pulled by some arcane plan, or flung, an accidental gift from those strange commanding energies that cause my shape to shift in tune with their caustic black hum. Here I am, in my old home, the home of childhood and a certainty that I bleed to know again. I bleed nothing. But I yearn. I remember the sickness of yearning. I pull myself in; it takes enormous effort to gather. My mother sits in the same chair she always sits in, the chair she sat in when I was five, when I was doing my homework at fifteen, when the two of us looked at university prospectuses in quiet excitement. When I visited, came home, perhaps hiding a bruise on my hairline. When I died, when I was gone. The same chair, the same place, the same table. She sits there, so known to me. And here I am, so unknown to her.

Before I am flung into the darkness once more, I pull myself in enough to know her, to see her, to reach out. What I can muster, it cannot be nothing, for I feel the weight of it; I feel the shriek and the pull of it. I am made of voiceless pleading, but to no avail. She is blind to me.

Her head is full of other ghosts.