Page 2 of The Book of Heartbreak

It may not be evident to the untrained eye, but Death is ever-present, woven through our world like the wind, rain or storm.

Those blessed with the pure eye understand that Death is not a lone entity but a legion, its acolytes walking amongst us to fulfil their duties.

These emissaries may occasionally falter, their missteps – though trivial to them – bearing dire consequences for mortals.

What is a human life to the Hidden, if not too numerous and dispensable to be accounted for with meticulous care?

Excerpt from The Book of Heartbreak, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

My life turns upside down on a Tuesday evening in June.

I get home from school as usual, eager to shut out the world behind the front door. But the minute I see our neighbour Fiona tucked into the hallway, I know something is wrong.

The evening is too balmy for shivering, the hour too late for visitors.

Not that we usually have any. It’s just Mum and me – if you don’t count the succession of men who make fleeting appearances at random hours.

Mum’s regrettable taste in the other sex must be beginning to drag down the property values in our morbidly expensive street.

‘Sare.’ Fiona looks everywhere but into my eyes, balancing her toddler Dotty on her hip. ‘Darling.’

At the word darling my hands go clammy. Mum’s friends mostly ignore her asocial, weird seventeen-year-old daughter.

But now Fiona extends her arm towards me, her shirt buttons askew, her hair a mess.

I recoil from the touch. Whatever has caused her to wash up here wearing slippers and no make-up is bad news, and I want none of it.

‘What’s going on?’ I shrug off my backpack.

‘Will you come inside for a minute?’

‘Where’s Mum?’ I’m determined to pinpoint my mother’s whereabouts before delving into whatever trouble has transpired. If I can predict what’s wrong, perhaps things won’t be as catastrophic. ‘Is she home?’

Now looming at the threshold of the reception room, Fiona shakes her head.

I go still, my gold pendant heavy around my neck, any remaining hope I had melting like ice cream in my hand.

Grubby toddler fingers tug at Fiona’s hair, but she doesn’t flinch.

Shit , I think as my feet follow them inside the room.

Shit, shit, shit . The thuds of my footsteps sound hollow – as if I’m made of fear and not flesh.

Something must have happened. I begin to plot tolerable scenarios that wouldn’t be the worst. Perhaps Mum’s in hospital, unwell but unharmed.

Or she could have driven to Ferit’s place again, the ex she can’t forget.

Has she made a scene at his? Perhaps the police have arrested her.

Inside, Dotty starts to cry as soon as Fiona sinks onto the worn-out sofa. ‘Please sit.’

‘Why?’

‘Please,’ she repeats. Her gaze still evades me.

She doesn’t want to be here, I realise. She doesn’t want to deliver this speech or meet my eyes.

I feel a twinge of pity for her, that she has to bear whatever turbulence my mother has caused.

My heart flutters inside my ribs like a caged bird.

The fluttering is a gentle prelude before a burning pain that mustn’t come – a warning that I can’t think about others.

I have to focus on myself. She isn’t here, but Munu’s words chime in my ears as I sink onto the sofa, perching on its edge.

You have a responsibility to protect yourself.

You must care about yourself and no one else.

If only it were that easy.

Fiona sets Dotty on the floor before easing herself beside me. The toddler immediately uses the edge of the coffee table to pull herself upright. Three empty wine bottles wobble in front of her, the dappled reflection of the Japanese maple in the front garden imprinted on their necks.

I clasp my hands between my knees and face Fiona, ready to absorb the damage.

‘Your mother—’ Her knee jabs into mine as she snatches a tarnished coaster from Dotty’s mouth. I shift to avoid her squirming. ‘Your mother was involved in an accident, and unfortunately, she didn’t make it.’ Fiona swallows a dry sob.

‘Accident?’ I look away from her and glance around the room as if it owes me an explanation.

Last night’s half-finished meal is sat on a plate in the corner, rotting.

Mismatched cushions lie on the sofa, the TV remote wedged between them; wine glasses, an array of empty mugs, boxes of painkillers on top of a pile of magazines.

‘She was driving down the M11, and it appears that she’d been drinking—’ Fiona shakes her head in disbelief, as if it makes no sense, like Mum was the sanest person on the face of the earth and would never drink-drive. She pauses as if it’s my turn to talk, but I don’t have any words.

‘The police called me an hour ago,’ Fiona says eventually, with a sigh.

The fact that this woman was Mum’s emergency contact fills me with sorrow.

Mum lost her own mother when she was born, and her father died when she was pregnant with me.

She has a few friends, sure, but no other family.

We have no one who truly cares. No one to call when she dies.

No one but a neighbour, who clearly wishes she wasn’t involved.

‘She’s . . . dead?’ I finally stutter. The idea that someone’s life can be flicked off like a light switch – that your mum can vanish on a motorway in an instant – doesn’t seem real.

‘She’s gone, Sare.’ Fiona reaches for Dotty’s shoulder as the child loses her balance and lets out a wail. ‘I can’t believe it. I saw her only this morning.’

Dead , my mind registers, like an ink stain expanding on a white napkin. My mother is dead. The fluttering in my chest sharpens into a searing, inescapable throb. My hands twitch on my lap, the scars inside my left palm tingling.

Fuck. I shouldn’t have ignored the fluttering.

A dated photograph of my mother and me in a wooden frame grows larger above the fireplace.

I must be five or six, Mum is sober, and her smile is timid.

Her hand clutches my arm as if to ensure that I’m real, that I’m really hers.

She used to love me back then, when I was a child and she still had a light in her eyes.

Then I grew up, and she changed. Why do you make everything a big deal?

Her voice wavers in my ears. Why do you always have to worry so much, Sare?

The walls begin to shrink and I exhale all the hope that was left in me. My lungs deflate. My heart begins to sizzle and I look down to my open palm, where three faint scars are carved as reminders for me not to mess up again.

‘She’s gone,’ Fiona repeats, her voice stilted like a robot on the brink of shutting down. That’s when I spot the fissures appearing on the wall behind her.

No. It can’t be happening again. I have to stop it. I have to prevent it.

Rule number three, I recite in vain. Death is not an option.

For a brief moment I consider grasping my pendant to summon Munu. Is it too late? Maybe she can help, do something to prevent my failure, but before I can do anything, the walls crumble and the room closes around me like the grip of an old regret.

She’s gone. The words echo, circling me like vultures. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

‘No!’ I scream. ‘Stop!’

Sare, you fool . Did you really think you could win against the curse?

What have I done? How did I trick myself into believing that I didn’t love Mum? I never stopped caring about her. She is all I have.

The floor quivers, creaking and groaning in response to my panic, and the house bows down, succumbing to the relentless force of the earthquake.

The pain I yearned to forget these past four years pierces me like lightning, proving once more that it’s stronger than I’ve ever been.

I should fight back, recite the rules, breathe, count – distract myself. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?

There are hundreds of ways to fill your life, and they say you should make the most of it.

I never dare follow this advice. In the past, I was naive enough to chase happiness, but each heartbreak has taught me a lesson.

I wasn’t like the other kids. I had to master my emotions.

And I thought I had – I haven’t cried since I was thirteen.

I shut myself away so no affection could worm itself into my chest. I refused every sliver of hope and happiness.

I didn’t have a drop of love left in me. I can’t be screwing all that up now.

But the earthquake rages on, breaking glass, splintering wood – telling me what I truly am. An orphan. A no one. The loneliest girl who ever walked the earth. It’s too late to fight back or resist; too late to call for help. I hear the crack of my heart and fall to the floor like a ragdoll.

This time, it only takes nine seconds to die.