over the call button and several long moments elapsed. She deleted the number and went searching again through her contacts. She found the one she wanted and called it.
“Hey mum, how’s your Sunday?”
“And where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you since Friday!”
“Mum, calm down. I’m fine. There was no reception.” Skye let the words sink in. “Now, I asked about your day.”
Skye could hear her mother’s anger disperse and transform into confusion.
“I...’ve spent it painting. ” She finally said. “I’m sorry you had to go all the way up there.”
“Actually, I am kinda glad you asked me to go.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“Well, apart from getting in a car accident, destroying my makeup and almost burning the place down, I actually had a pretty great time.”
“... what do you mean you almost burnt the place down?”
“Oh, nothing, I was just trying to cook.”
“But, you don’t cook.”
They both laughed.
“I know, mum. But I didn’t have much choice. There wasn’t any food in the house. No wonder grandma passed away.”
“Well, as long as you’re safe.”
“I’m fine. I was thinking of stopping by on my way home.”
“... what for?”
“What do you mean what for? To see you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Why does anything have to be wrong to see my mum?”
“O… kay. Well I will see you soon then, I guess.”
“Great.” Skye lowered the phone in order to hang up but brought it back to her ear quickly.
“Hey mum, just before I go, can you let Aunt Wendy know I accidently broke one of the window panes alongside the back door.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I couldn’t find the key and it was raining and I broke a window to let myself in the backdoor.”
The phone fell silent.
“... mum?”
“Skye, there aren’t any windows around the backdoor.”
Inside the kitchen of the old miner’s cottage, three figures moved around inspecting the items that had been tampered with by the intruder. The largest figure tapped one claw on the note that had been left, whilst its other claw held the lifeless body of a young woman over its shoulder. The medium-sized figure was reviewing the recipe on the fridge, and the smallest figure was stirring the pot of porridge, stopping to lift the wooden spoon to its muzzle. It tasted just right.
Acknowledgements
This story doesn't happen without several key individuals: Fly, you not only make the work fun but you keep it honest. Button, when I fall, usually over my own nonsense, you dust me off and get me back to the words. To my friends and family who take the time to read the rantings and let me know how it made you feel, I do what I do for you.
More things @ www.stevenzelko.com
Publishing Note:
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