Grey Eyes

...

‘The room is... unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.’ Words whispered for the fifth time from creased, crinkled lips. Words that barely carried themselves over to the other side of the twee room. Where a man sat.

To him, it seemed as though the old woman’s face was being slowly squashed by the confusion, like a rusty, bent nail yielding to the hammer’s blows.

‘This is your home; you’re happy here.’

'No, no, this isn’t my home; where am I?’

The man’s eyes stared at the old woman as she shook her head and rocked slightly in her tackily embroidered chair.

God, she was a pitiful sight. Feeble, with a voice like the last dregs of air escaping a dying lung.

‘This is your home now. You have everything—’

‘Who are you anyway, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m your son, it’s me, Edward.’

‘No, no, I only have one son.’

Edward grimaced slightly. He eased out of his chair and went to his mother. He reached for and took hold of one of her hands. It felt limp and bony, like the lifeless body of a tiny bird. A hand that used to feel like flint striking stone on his skin.

‘Mother, it’s me.’

Her eyes looked at the tall trees that swayed romantically in the wind, they looked distant.

‘Mother.’

Her eyes returned to the room, lingering on nothingness, before meeting Edwards. But she didn’t look at him.

Her watery, distorted grey eyes never seemed to belong to the woman Edward had known as a child. Now they seemed right at home.

She dragged her hand away from his. ‘I don’t know you. I don't... don’t touch me!’

Edward stood up slowly, turning to return to the neutrality of his chair.

What am I doing here?

His eyes darted to the sky-blue pillow that was lying on his mother’s bed.

You should visit her, Edward, she might not be around for much longer. She is your mother.

‘Who sent you the flowers?’

Edward gestured towards a Devon Ware vase. Pink flowers were dotted over the white and gold ceramic, and blue irises sprouted from the top. He always thought the flowers looked like little ladies’ dresses.

‘No one sends me anything.’

‘Well, someone did, and they happened to have guessed your favourite flower and your favourite colour too. Did they come with a note?’

‘No one sends me anything.’

There was a rasping knock on the door, and before Edward could answer, a large woman entered. Her little eyes scoured the room. Before settling on Edward.

‘Good afternoon, I was wondering if you required any refreshments, Mr Chasby?’

‘We’re quite alright, thank you.’

Gods, she was a brutish-looking woman, her head was like that of a bull, and her hands looked like they could strangle a man.

‘Some tea, please, Ruth. Who, who is this man sitting in that chair?’

Edward's mother’s hand rose to shake a finger in the direction of her son.

Ruth’s mouth opened slightly, but before she could say anything, Edward waved his hand dismissively.

‘I’ll be back shortly with some tea, Edna.’

The bull smiled and then left the room. A rather nice smile, Edward thought.

Isn’t it strange that what hurts the most isn’t what someone did, but their lies and refusal to admit their wrongs?

Edward rubbed his lips with his forefinger. As he often did when pondering what to do. He wanted answers, he wanted to hear the truth ring out from his mother’s mouth. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know why before she finally died. He wondered what he would feel when she died; he suspected nothing at all.

A glance at the tiny bird in the embroidered chair made Edward realise that he wasn’t going to get any answers.

Another rasp and the bull entered, carrying a silver tray with tea for two. She set the tray down.

‘Thank you, Ruth.’ Edna gave a warm smile to her supplier of tea.

‘You’re welcome, dear. Mr Chasby.’ Ruth smiled and departed the room, though with more urgency this time. Edward suspected his dark gaze had quickened her withdrawal.

His gaze drifted to his mother.

Her smile had shown more fondness to this brute of a thing than she had ever shown to him.

Edward lent forward to pour the tea. The teapot quivered slightly as bronze liquid fell from its spout into a blue and white cup. He poured one for his mother, adding a dash of milk, before settling back into his chair.

As he raised his cup, he noticed dark liquid emanating from beneath his mother’s legs. The liquid spread over the front of the chair, its blackness consuming the brightly coloured flowers.

He took a sip of his tea before setting his cup and saucer down.

He went to his mother's side and rested his hand gently on her lap.

‘Edna, you’ve had an accident.’

‘Oh, have I, what have I done?’ She looked down, her face unmoved as if there was nothing amiss.

‘Let me help you to your bed; you seem to have spilt your tea.’ Edna looked at the untouched cup and saucer on her side of the silver tray. The milk drifted like a ghost, unmixed with the dark fluid.

Edward led Edna to the bed, easing her down, till she was lying on the sky-blue cover.

‘Charlie?’

Edward froze.

‘Charlie, where are you? Your mother... your mother’s here.’

Edward looked at his mother’s swimming grey eyes. They always seemed like mirrors to his own watery eyes as a child.

Boys don’t cry.

Yet behind the mirrors lay cold, hard slate. That never seemed to care.

Edward reached for the pillow, his trembling hand settling for a moment.

You know why you’re here.

He smiled to himself. What an absurd thought.

He picked up the pillow and placed it under his mother’s head. Laying his hand on her forehead, he glided his fingers through her silver hair.

‘Goodbye mother.’

He left without turning back, strolling down the narrow corridor and out into the Devonshire sun. The rays penetrated his skin, and the wind skimmed by.

He got into his red ABC and drove down the driveway. Listening to the pebbles crunch beneath the rubber.

‘Goodbye.’

Reedsy prompt #289: Start your story with the lines: “The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.”

Image: Seated Old Woman by Paula Modersohn-Becker