FLOYD; sirius black

11;- the realism of the dreams

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chapter 11; the realism of the dreams
word count 2136

1972

Kathy Wilde sat timidly on the bar, her family surrounding her each with a bitter-sweet smile plastered on their faces. A small cupcake sat close to her, the frosting a pale pink colour, and a wonky fondant 'A' sat on top of it accompanied with a yellow candle. Kathy's gaze was exactly at the candle and it didn't leave it, her mind was awake and running and she wanted to scream and cry and find her daughter. She watched as the candle flickered with each passing second, she watched as the bellowing voices around her would blow the smoke in each and every direction. She watched how sensitive the flame was just like her, just like her daughter. It was Annelise Wilde's twelfth birthday. It seemed that this was the tradition, Kathy would hitch herself up on the bar, watch people salute her daughter, and then watch them get worthlessly drunk. It angered her, filled her with absolute fury and frustration. She hadn't drank a drop of alcohol since the night Annelise was taken from her and then she sees the people that only turn up for the free booze on 'Annie's special night'.  Her brothers had attempted to find the girl years ago but to no avail and Kathy Wilde was left to be so lonely. She was so lonely without her child and she fell into a pit of depression for many years until the hope of finding the girl had arrived again and left shortly after.

Connor Wilde burst in the door moments later, his eyes landing on his sister and the common silence that now surrounded her. She use to be bright and happy and filled with joy but the person that filled her with joy was gone. Her daughter was gone. And, Kathy Wilde wondered if her daughter even remembered her- she supposed she doesn't, they had spent three years together and those three years would be one that Annelise Wilde would forget, she was just a baby.

"Here's to Annie. Our baby Annie." Her eyes were brimmed with tears." Annie. My little girl." Pause." Little wouldn't be a word to describe her anymore, twelve. Twelve she's twelve." She pushed her hair back." You know, I dread this day. I dread it, I- I hate doing these, they suck, they have no purpose but to remind me th-that my daughter could be dead for all I bloody know! My daughter could be dead and you all, you all show up because you want a free fucking drink! Don't you have families and lives? I wish, I wish I had a family to go home to every day, to love and to hug and to bathe. I wish I could watch the telly with my daughter, she would-" Kathy Wilde was crying, hysterically. The crowd watched in awe for Kathy Wilde was always nonchalant, she didn't cry. She didn't cry at her mother's funeral, nor her father nor her sister nor her brother. She just didn't. " Fuck all of you! Fuck you! I need my daughter back and I will not sit here and do nothing, again. I don't care if I get killed, I don't care- I need to see her."

-

1963

The man had a thick moustache, he would often touch it, play with the ends, brush it up. She stared at it as she wept into his shoulder. Loud noises of the child's screams echoed as the man bustled past the crowds for the people of Birmingham not to notice this child was away from home. In the blink of an eye, they stood in front of a large manor. Bricks of red layered the walls, vines growing in the crevices of each crack between blocks. The door was painted the hue of a red with golden lions for a knob and a tinted glass window stowed in the middle. The blinds were shut in all windows except one, and the light from the large living room window poured out over the front garden emphasizing the many plants that scattered the grass. The man reached out for the door, his hand curling around the knob before he pushed it open to be hit with the heat and comfort of his home.