IRC-Galleria

When she saw the building, she didn't storm through the gates enthusiastically to check if every nook and cranny was in its place.

Enthusiasm. What a wasted effort.

Her feet were nailed to the ground. They felt suddenly very heavy. Unlike the ones of the little girl who kept nudging her hand persistently. Another waisted effort. She stood paralyzed.

The house was the size of a matchbox. A woodland fairy had shrunk it, the little girl would've concluded. But then again, to her it was probably more like a grand palace. Maybe that was why she was so eager to get to the other side of the gates.

Remembrance. Now wasn't a time for that. The memory lane was blocked. A bridge had fallen down.

Right now, it was just a matchbox. It didn't matter what it had been seven years ago. Or what it had held inside the moss-covered walls.

Seven, six, eight. Time didn't matter. It had always been to late, anyway, so she had abandoned time. A bully never kept bullying if the victim didn't give a damn. Reaction was all they were ever looking for. She hadn't reacted.

And she still didn't. The girl pulled so hard she almost threw her off balance.

“Mom...”
“Sshhhhhh!” she raised her index finger on her lips. The girl frowned discontentedly.

She wanted to hallucinate. She wanted to hear his voice calling from the gardens, melting her feet so she could've really stormed through those gates. No matter that the road behind her was so noisy it blocked every other sound. She would've heard his most silent whisper.

“Mom, let's go. Come.”

But he didn't want to talk to her. She had abandoned him. She was a coward and he had been obliged to face it alone, without her holding his hand and crying beside his bed every night.

“Mom, come on! It's okay.”

He had every right to be mad.

The girl screamed, horrified.

She didn't know when she had collapsed. Someone was carrying her.

She heard the hinges screeching as the gate was opened and then closed behind them.