I. DAY TWO – SNOW DAY
Tomorrow, the day of the funeral, it was set to snow.
Phoebe was splayed across the pavement, anxiously cracking her knuckles. Her scruffy hair fell to her eyebrows, covering the entirety of her forehead (which she was always insecure about) and leaving a slight gap for her mismatched eyes to peer through. Despite her exceptionally short hair, she insisted on bangs, which obviously looked unusual – she would often remark something about her great aunt and how her hair captivated all, and Phoebe desired much the same.
With her phone nestled between her head and shoulder, Phoebe was in an unrelenting staring contest with a grey puddle, but her odds seemed embarrassingly low.
‘Are you happy?’ Her phone said, in a raspy, matter of fact voice.
‘I’m happy.’ She answered. Smiling, considering a career in acting. Oddly, the puddle danced – jumping up and down, conceding its victory and slowly dissipating. She smiled again.
‘I hope you are. I really do.’ The matter of fact-ness did not turn to sympathy as one would think but instead maintained as the voice got more and more hoarse. She spat up a furball, ‘But you know that lying isn’t helpful.’
Phoebe felt the turbulence of her comment and shot up. ‘I have to go now but I’ll talk to you tomorrow’, she put on her ferret-skin coat and amethyst gloves.
‘Our next session is Friday, I can book us in for…’ She became distant, before resuming; ‘Tomorrow if you’d like?’
‘I’d like to see the snow,’ Phoebe muttered.
‘What was that?’ She responded, breaking up.
‘Tomorrow,’ Phoebe spoke, ‘I’d like to see the snow tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’ She spoke tenderly. ‘That’s okay. We can talk Friday. Keep well please Phoebe, I’ll speak to you then.’ The long-awaited sympathy finally arrived.
Behind her, the small house seemed like a poorly painted landscape, with the chilled air guiding Phoebe towards the narrow bridge. She sat, waiting in anticipation of the forthcoming snow. Much the same, the sky hung above her with its murky swirls and a peculiarly faint sun that made it hard to tell the time of day. Amidst this blank canvas, Phoebe saw a pale green streak of flame weave through the miserable clouds with ease, almost taunting the rest of the sky for its lassitude and putting on a show for any poor Earth-souls. Before it disappeared, her eyes closed, and lips mouthed silent words.
Time gradually became more obvious. The sinking of the sun permitted the entrance of the moon and a barren sky. She continued leaning on the barrier of the cold bridge, with a thin layer of snow building up beside her and atop her lavender beanie. The infrequent passage of cars shook the rickety bridge and jerked her back and forth like an infant being rocked to sleep.
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She then saw six women. All with bangs. Distinctively different in dye. Much like hers, one donned a chocolate-brown colour and an unattractive forehead. Another reminiscent of the night’s shooting star with streaks of lime and gold. Three more that blended together in remembrance and came out a sickly yellow she wished to forget. But she would not overlook the strangely alluring woman whose thin, fiery hair reminded her of her great aunt. No, it didn’t just remind her. It was her. It must’ve been. She couldn’t’ve forgotten that. She turned towards her aunt and the others vanished, and the surrounding world seemed to shrink as her eyes adjusted to her bright pink silhouette.
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The combination of age and the weight of a hundred thousand tyres punched holes into the old bridge, allowing for rain, gravel, cigarettes, and gum to meet, and make for an annoyingly bumpy ride. These holes almost penetrated the wood entirely, some even letting the jovial stream see the moon and the stars. This shine reflected off of Phoebe’s sunburned skin and decorated her in a faint light – as though an alien spacecraft was due to retrieve her any second. Which she would have rather enjoyed.
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She stared at her. Remembering her face shape, wanting to touch her cheek. Until her aunt raised her hands. Placed them on her head. And torn off her fire. Falling hair painted her bare feet and fell over the bridges railing.
‘I’m tired of pretending’ Her aunt whispered, modifying her tone. Snow rose around her.
Phoebe opened her mouth wide, unable to produce sound. The snow piled up to her head, leaving only two openings.
‘Is this real?’ She spoke once more, blinking rapidly, anticipating an answer from Phoebe.
She frowned and clawed at the snow prison. Black nail beds became red as the snow kept rising higher and higher following each scrape, tough as ice.
‘Where am I?’ The words struck like a gong. ‘Are you really here?’ Another.
Phoebe cracked her knuckles… returning to her reality.
II. ONE DAY PRIOR – DREAMS AND WHAT THEY MEAN
‘I think I forgot to make my bed’ she whispered, staring at the popcorn ceiling. The room was like any other; banal – a void of normality. What you’d expect a home converted into a clinic to be. Feigning comfort and embracing the basic.
‘What was that Phoebe?’ Lucy sighed, but not in a condescending manner, rather, a meditative, thoughtful sort of consideration. ‘Have you been to the support group I mentioned?’
‘I saw her yesterday’. She exhaled.
‘Who?’ Her head tilted. ‘Your mum? You’ll have to see her at the funeral. You know your aunt’s death—’
‘I don’t want to go’. The ticking of the clock was too scared to interrupt her. ‘I can’t see her anymore’.
‘See who, Phoebe?’
She swallowed. ‘My aunt’.
The room spun as Lucy moved. ‘What do you mean you saw her?’ She paused briefly. ‘Can you explain it to me?’
Phoebe protested.
‘Are you dreaming again?’ Lucy took a breath. ‘What has she said? Did she talk to you?’
They dined in silence.
‘Do you want to… go?’ She suggested, perhaps not only for Phoebe’s sake.
‘I don’t want to go. Don’t make me.’ She wailed.
Legs crossed on the stained carpet and head bowed. Words were no longer necessary.
III. DAY THREE – WAKE UP, IT’S THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL
Her eyes adjusted to the sunshine, and surprising sound of warbling larks which reminded her of the day. Today, the day of the funeral, it was set to snow. More than it already was. The bridge, though not overflowing, was gently layered with the white, and infiltrated her hair like an angry creature. In three hours, the casket would return to the earth from which it was said to have come from, and Phoebe would be sitting, politely, in a ghostly chapel with sixteen others who she should know, but nowadays couldn’t strain her brain hard enough to locate names, let alone place said names to faces. Instead, she sat at the back, beside floral arrangements of pink carnations and primroses’, and blended into the dark cobblestone wall. Upon entry, she noticed a man shaking a cup of coins and a quintet of brightly dressed women sobbing in the corner. Must be here for a different funeral, Phoebe thought.
She hated the service. To her, everyone was inauthentic. Liars. Only there for personal gain or the charitable clout associated with loss. Her mother, the only other living relative to have actually known great Aunt Chelsea, was tasked with delivering the eulogy. Which, in short, was excruciating. Almost as though she queued each tear, each sniffle, each throat-clearing ahem. She was the biggest of all – in lying and weight. Perhaps Phoebe was predisposed to hate her mother. A genetic tendency passed from her mother to her, which originated from her mother’s mother, who received it from her mother, and so on.
‘I knew Aunt Chelsea for all of my life. And now,’ she pouted ‘to know that I will continue the rest of it without her.’ A single tear streamed down her face ‘It will be the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced. She was an absolute warrior till the end…’
Each pew offered a supportive smile as she grabbed her paper and took her seat once more. Bar Phoebe, of course, who instead stared blankly at her mother.
Her view of the casket was obscured by three tubby men whom she did not recognise, and simply didn’t know her aunt well-enough to know the company she kept. As hard as it was to imagine, she supposed she must have had friends. Unless they were there for another reason.
Phoebe observed. Keenly. The triumvirate were inconspicuous. Playing the roles of grieving friends. Phoebe failed to stand. Someone must have sneakily placed superglue under her, of course. An elaborate plan to torment her, or at least her jeans. Finally, she managed. Shot up like a firework. What for? To talk to them? No, something far less sensical. Accuse them of… Murder? Involvement in her aunt’s death perhaps? Who knows. Phoebe certainly didn’t.
Almost like a warning, her phone awoke. Buzzing. Lucy. Even Phoebe, in her evident instability, knew that denying your therapist’s call is not a good idea. But still, she did. Well, with the decency to let it ring through, at least. Still standing. A metre ahead, the trio hovered.
‘Some funeral, huh?’ Said a laughing man, gawking at Phoebe. His head tilted slightly. ‘Did you have fun?’ he said maniacally.
She cracked her knuckles. Blinked, and was suddenly seated again.
One of the large men approached her, ‘You’re Phoebe, right?’, giving no time to respond, ‘We can’t believe she’s gone, she was a fighter, that woman’, the man frowned.
Phoebe stared. Looking on from an ice prison. Who were these people?
‘She was very funny. Did you see her at the gala last year?’ another chimed in, killing the silence.
‘… the banana bit’, the third giggled. ‘Got me every time.’
Phoebe thawed out with confusion.
‘Oh…’ the largest of the three said. ‘We’re from Chelsea’s improv troupe… we probably should have led with that. She was such a –’
Do improv actors own guns? She thought.
IV. TWELVE DAYS PRIOR – THE DAY SHE DIED
Twelve days earlier, great Aunt Chelsea.
It was an oddly smoldering day. Clouds abandoned. Sun dominated. And Chelsea decided to go fishing. How else do you spend the first sunny day in months?
And that was that. Last known to have gone by that old narrow bridge. As Phoebe told the police department. Before, as strange as it sounds, her hair was discovered, below the bridge, floating. As though made into a wig – which the police department insisted that it was in fact a wig.
V. DAY FOUR – THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL
Improv troupes are unbearable, Phoebe discovered. Today, the day after the funeral, Phoebe wished to see her again. Closing her eyes. Slouching on a couch. Slurping tea. Attempting to bring about dream. Her mother never did mention cause of death in her eulogy. That fact bounced around her head. Improv troupes don’t own real guns. Her hair couldn’t have been a wig. Who brings pink carnations to a funeral? Phoebe was now playing detective. The case that would make her career.
Who killed Aunt Chelsea?
VI. HAYWIRE
Phoebe learnt that your voicemail fills up rather quickly if you leave your phone on do not disturb.
VII. SATANIC BITCH
Fiery hair matched her character perfectly – devilish. Great Aunt Chelsea was a bitch. If Phoebe’s relationship with her mother was tense, her relationship with Chelsea was uh. More tense. Complicated.
VIII. DAY FIVE – SLEEP YOURSELF TO DEATH
She slept for 22 ½ hours. A bottle of melatonin gummies will do that to you. All in the hopes of seeing her aunt. The dreamed can talk, she learned a few days ago. So, they can help. Put her on the right track. Give her a lead for this investigation. Tell her what happened.
She did not dream, or, if she did, it was long forgotten by the time she woke.
She went back to sleep.
IX. … A LONG TIME AGO(?)
The sun was comforting. Warm without making you sweat. Keeping you cozy in a t-shirt and shorts. The bridge was brand-new, or at least in considerably better shape than the present reality. Leaning off the railing, young Phoebe, her mother, and her aunt stared into the stream below.
You could probably drink the water, Phoebe thought. Squinting her eyes. And for a moment, considered doing so, as she slid down the hill. Standing above the stream, she stared vacantly. Observing her face in the moving reflection. Pulling at her hair. Giving herself bangs. Pinching her cheeks. Giving them blush. Shaking her head. Blurring the mirror. The makeover was done, she hiked back up.
They were gone. Both of them. Leaves layered the railing where they all hovered before. As though untouched since the beginning of Autumn. Phoebe brushed at the rail. Leaned. Then sat herself down. She cracked her knuckles. And fell asleep. Before promptly waking to the image of her aunt, donning a pink puffer jacket and amethyst gloves.
‘We couldn’t find you Phoebe,’ she said, gushing with relief. ‘We looked everywhere. I’m glad you’re really here’.
X. DAY FIVE
Phoebe awoke, abruptly. 23 hours of sleep.
She did dream. Or remember the past. Unsure which makes more sense.
A vision, she decided.
XI. THE INVESTIGATION CONTINUES
She returned to the bridge. This time, without her beanie. It seemed as though the snow had been falling since long before the funeral. She glanced at the railing. Seeing herself, her aunt and mother standing there. Together. An onlooker in one’s own memory, or dream. Phoebe blinked and her young self disappeared from view. Though, it happened differently to what she saw before.
‘Is it not time to tell her?’ Her mother asked.
‘I don’t want her to pity me,’ Chelsea cleared her throat, ‘She’s a child.’
Phoebe saw the bridge as new as it was in her vision. Snow melted, leaving leaves to layer the entirety of the bridge. She crept towards the two, trying not to alert them of her presence. As though on a conveyor belt, they moved. Dragged two hundred metres. Still talking. Standing straight. Unphased by the sudden movement.
‘You’re her aunt –’
‘Great Aunt’ she interjected.
‘It has to come from you, just tell her.’ Her mother pleaded.
‘I’ll survive.’ She asserted.
The conversation faded as Phoebe once again walked towards them.
XII. HOW IT ENDS (OR SPECIFICALLY HOW IT MAY END.)
Phoebe sat against the railing of the bridge. Hearing her mother and aunt’s voices ricochet in her head.
She imagined a pinboard with pictures and lines flowing, linking her aunt, her mother, the improv troupe, all those who attended the funeral. The couple who brought pink carnations. The old man shaking a cup of coins. The five despondent bald women. She hit a wall. Unsure what it all meant. What killed her aunt? Why did her mother call her a warrior? She didn’t know.
Turns out, Phoebe made quite a poor detective. She missed one word. The one which gave meaning to it all. Swallowed it by mistake. She could describe its texture. Its flavour. The curvature of each letter. A malignant word, she thought. Before her phone rang, losing the word like a set of keys.
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stephen zavitsanos writing 