Symphony of Lilacs

41. To the Bone

The night strikes down sooner than anyone expects. It walks like a cloaked figure prying into people's windows, knocking on their doors and sinking its claws into their necks when they answer the door.

When I came out of Mathilda's room to get her a glass of water, I took a detour to the Trevors upstairs upon her request.
After hearing the news, Mrs Trevor shooed Oliver to fetch someone from the morgue. A boy of only twelve sent to a death house. A boy who should not have any business going there.
Even though I wanted to stop him, I found myself walking back to the apartment. No stares or questions asked by the Trevors as to why I’m here at such an hour.
Still something claws within me, a few words silently hissing inside.

Nothing… you did absolutely nothing… nothing...

Gritting my teeth, I go back to her bedroom.
Mathilda doesn't even notice the glass of water till it’s put beside her.
She keeps looking down at the red crescents scaring her skin. They're cold to the bone, despite the weather.
After pulling my coat off my shoulders and onto hers.
Then I walk out of her room again, leaving her to grieve in solitude.

Should you really leave her?

I’m still here; I’ll only be giving her some privacy.
Still, I’ll leave the door slightly ajar.

Absolutely nothing...

Though as I stand in the miniscule corridor, a part of my being seems to be left inside the room.
But then the door knocks-- five steady beats-- and my head flicks to the clock in the living room, ignoring the person still on her rocking chair.

“They yearn for what they dread…”

Taking a breath, my arms fold across my chest. Never looking at the left.

A man stands on the doorway when the door slides open. Dark bags hang beneath his bored eyes, his suit slightly wrinkled.
“Davidson. I'm the undertaker.” He points at the carriage behind me, the name of the morgue branded upon it. Two more men linger by its side, both clad in dark uniforms.

“K… Knightley. Please, do come in.” I try ceasing the tremor in my voice.

Someone inches towards the entrance. Someone whom I haven't seen for a few months.

“I though’ doctors always brought back folks from the dead. I was wrong.”

Oliver Trevor stands with his head bent down, while he keeps looking over his shoulder at the attendants behind him.
I lower myself to his height, before whispering,
“Thank you for… bringing them.” I pat his shoulder. “You can go home now if you want.”

Wordlessly, I stand and take a few steps back. I want to say something else, to say something better.
But all phrases seem useless right now.
Heavy footsteps against an iron staircase echo from the outside.

Inside, Davidson stands next to… Mrs Penrose on the rocking chair. I take a deep breath, before he says,
“What are you to the deceased?” He looks at me, up and down.

My hands fold behind my back, glancing back at Mathilda's room.
“I…” What am I to her?
“I’m Mrs Penrose’s doctor.” I weakly nod.

The undertaker rubs his chin, as he inspects Mrs Penrose.
“If you're her doctor, then you’ll be able to give me a better account of her death circumstances for the autopsy.”

But then the ajar door creaks open, making the both of us jolt.
Davidson narrows his eyes, while my lips part.
“Mathilda…”

Her arms are folded-- a strand clouding the side of her face-- standing straight.
Davidson tilts his head, but does not see the life gone from her eyes. How her hands shake slightly. How her paling skin hides the red crescents underneath her palms.
“Penrose. I’m her daughter.”
Still she doesn't look at me.