Page 14 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)
I look at the book where it rests in my hands, a strip of black tape holding the frail binding together. The title, A Tower of Sea and Stars, overlays a classic image of a wizard standing on a tower, brilliant light emitting from his great, white staff.
“I can’t wait to read it. Thank you, Ronald. ”
He smiles at me, and any evidence of his sorrow disappears. He turns back to his meal, digging into the two chocolate pudding cups that await him.
I pull my backpack out from under me and tuck the book safely in the front pocket, alongside my library loan, making a silent promise to myself that I’ll read it next.
With the precious cargo now safely stowed away, I return to my tray and attempt to finish my food. I have to force every bite into my mouth, because Ronald’s news has torn open a wound I kept stitched shut by overworking myself every day.
Images of my mother and her physical state as she died of cancer flash through my mind, dragging me back into the hollow ache of the past.
I barely notice when Ronald grabs his empty tray and stands up. I force myself to face him and offer him a smile when he tells me he hopes to see me again. We exchange goodbyes, and I drift off again as the image of him walking away triggers another memory.
The despair is so profound it has a numbing effect, spreading through me like ice as it steals the warmth from me like a merciless leech.
I'm sitting next to my mother’s hospice bed, her skeletal hand in mine as her once beautiful blue eyes stare out at nothing—a fog settling over the muted colour.
The ghost of death is looking out from the hull of a human being I love so ferociously.
She’s cold. So cold, and her mouth is agape—every muscle in her body gone lax after she took her final, deep breath.
I'm haunted by the sight of her… hollow and empty, a shell of who she used to be; my warm, loving mother. My caretaker, my best friend, and my own personal librarian. The sole reason I’m a bookworm, a mirror of my mother’s love of literature.
The cold hand resting lifelessly in mine was once warm and gentle, always bringing me a new book every time I finished the previous one she gifted me.
Now, it holds nothing. It is capable of nothing. I am becoming nothing, too.
My father’s broken sob steals me from my misery, drawing my empathetic gaze towards him. His face is drenched in the evidence of his grief, glistening trails of tears cascading ruthlessly down both of his cheeks.
I startle when a scream pours out of him, and tremble violently as his agony slams into me like a derailed freight train, destroying what little is left of me.
The bitterness of the loss is thick on his tongue as the sound dissipates, and several nurses gather near the door. Tears gather in the eyes of the oldest nurse, my mom’s main attendant over the last few weeks, but I can’t stand seeing them. Not right now.
I turn my attention back to Dad, but he isn’t looking at me as he stands up. For what feels like the longest minute of my life, he stares down at Mom, rage and despair written all over him like the world’s saddest story that I never wanted to read.
He turns away, and I stare at his back as he leaves the room. Leaves Mom, and leaves me. He is a ghost now, too. His soul left him when my Mom took her final breath.
I’ve lost everything, and there is nothing here to anchor myself to.
When the memory leaves me, I'm wiping at my face to dry the wet pathways of tears it left behind. Glancing around, I find myself outside with no memory of how I got here. It’s pitch back, and I don’t recognize what part of the city I’m in.
I blink away the remnants of my tears, craning my head to look up along the towering heights of one of the oldest churches in Toronto. Something I instantly recognize, thankfully.
St. Augustine’s Cathedral looms high overhead, Gothic and grand, its towering spires piercing the stormy night sky. Dim lights from inside the church cast shadows across the intricate stained-glass windows—panels of saints and demons bathed in vibrant colour.
The rain has started to fall in cold, scattered drops, and I tilt my head back, transfixed by the art.
A voice startles me.
“I said, do you have any spare change?”
I turn towards the sound, searching the darkness. A man steps out from a cluttered corner of the alleyway. He’s homeless, too. There are black garbage bags behind him in a broken shopping cart, with his large, tattered pack stacked on top .
I shake my head, flinching as heavy rain drops land on my forehead. “I’m sorry, sir. I have nothing. I’m homeless, too.”
It’s not a lie. As of this afternoon, I don’t have a single penny to my name. Sometimes I have a small stash of granola bars in my pack, but I don’t even have that right now. If I did, I would definitely share them with anyone who asked.
He stumbles towards me, and I take a step back. His movements are erratic, his face contorted in an expression of lunacy. My heart begins to race as the panic hits me.
“I’ll just take your backpack, then.”
Shit.