Tuesday’s Sky
Tuesday’s sky had been an unseasonable grey. Her memories scattered like debris, but she remembered the clouds. Hospital food, bedpans, and death infused with antiseptic that clung to her nose. Regular doses of medication kept her drowsy; the fog even lingering as the drugs wore off. At least she was awake. Aware. She had less than an hour before the next sedative kicked in. This time she’d remember.
Tuesday’s sky dawned miserable and unsettled. Full of dark clouds that precipitated peril. Mother cried; Mother screamed. An angry deluge. The milk was off; the milk was fine. How her brothers glared at her because they would be late again. Where is your damn cab? The silent taxi driver. Transported like meat. She didn’t need to know which hazy re-run was last Tuesday, because it had been stuck on repeat since Dad left. Years later, and they still blamed her. Perfect twins. Damaged daughter. School. Avoiding Cheryl, who always sniggered and pointed as others gave her a wide berth. Did they think it was contagious? She’d shot them a toothy grin. They were right to be scared.
Tuesday’s sky developed a deceitful golden glow. A rap of knuckles on the door belonging to Mrs. Heggaty. Giggles rippled across the class as Mr. Armstrong woke with a snort. The receptionist’s mass of grey curls appeared in the doorway; her frantic words aged him in an instant. Casting his weary eyes out across the courtyard, his face crumpled.
“Sir?” Cheryl paused to chew her gum, looking like a gasping fish in the thickening air. “You been on the whisky or summink?”
Mr. Armstrong rubbed a pale, wrinkled fist against his chest and stopped the video projected on the whiteboard. She remembered how their eyes had met and something told her he was asking for help. She couldn’t do anything, it was too late. “Grab your phones, put on your coats.” He stood, chair legs screeching across the tiled floor. “No mucking about. Leave your bags.” A few whispers replied, smothered by the rustle of padded parkas and the pounding rain.
“Listen,” he’d said, staring straight at her, “the lift will lose power when the fire alarm rings.” He’d glanced at his watch and picked up her bag. It shook as he placed it on her lap. “Go now, get a head start,” he looked around the room, “Lucas, go with her. But you must hurry, we will meet you in the basement.” Lucas scrambled for his phone as his gaze landed on the storm darkening their window.
“Sir? Is she getting special treatment?” Cheryl smirked. Mr. Armstrong hated Cheryl. She heard his disgust. Hairs on edge, her body prickled with static. Feet too. Hail the size of fists hammered at the windows.
“Sorry, I understand it’s disrespectful, but I think I should push.” Hesitant, Lucas grasped the wheelchair, rolling her forward. “Sorry,” he repeated, voice cracking. Blinding-blue lightning engulfed the room, the electric heat ripping through her.
Too bright, the hospital light stung her eyes; she tilted her head towards the cubicle’s cerulean curtain. She rubbed her eyes with her good hand, the other in a cast. Reminiscing was exhausting. Soothed by roaring wind and waves, like the time Dad had placed a seashell to her ear. She was certain he would come home now.
Tuesday’s sky swirled and seethed. A spinning wall of black clouds that swelled with malice. Lucas started panicking once they were in the lift. She’d known they couldn’t go as far as the basement, laughed when he promised to carry her. Alarms blared and the lift slammed to a halt.
“Brontë, I’m scared,” Lucas murmured. The warmth of his breath flushed her skin. My name is Brontë. He squeezed her shoulder and white noise rioted against her skull. His secrets. They broadcast in her head. Brontë watched his father’s abuse. His mother’s drunken stupors.
He wrapped his arms around her; tears filled her eyes. When was the last time anyone hugged her? BANG. Lift dropping; their bodies suspended and weightless. A shame he had to die. BANG. The pain was instant. Snap of his neck, the patter of blood against her face. Would his parents miss him? Sheltered beneath the boy’s body, she closed her eyes. One deep breath. One hard gust.
The screaming wind blew across town. Snapping tree roots, forcing the oak over. She saw the familiar Ford swerve off the road and crash into the river. She felt water-filled lungs burn with panic, as her mother fought to free the twins. Brontë was weightless as the last air bubble broke the surface. Like dancing in the breeze. From the lift, she heard distant sirens. Please, just one last strike.
Huddled together, the class looked like penguins on melting ice. Trapped and surrounded by water too dark, too deep, and full of sharp teeth. They’d stopped calling for Mr. Armstrong—he wasn’t there. At the top of the steps, Cheryl remained silent. Brontë knew she’d chained the door, locking the teacher out.
The final fork of lightning struck, and the basement pipes shattered above them. The flood rose above their knees. The emergency lights flickered on as a chorus of pleas begged Cheryl to hurry. She fumbled with the lock, hands cold and trembling, but the water snatched the key from her fingers. Numb legs lost touch with the floor as water clamped around their necks. Brontë watched through Cheryl’s eyes as the almost-dead thrashed and tore at skin, clambering up the stairs with bulging eyes and bulbous throats. Cheryl’s cries turned to gargled wails as they dragged her under. Brontë knew when it was over. She had tasted the water.
Today’s sky was calm and clear. All she could do was wait. Dad will come now. Drowning out the sound of monitors beeping, she imagined seashells on her ears, hearing the water’s gentle rhythm as corpses, blue and bloated, bobbed against the ceiling.