“So, who’s going to die today?” I ask as I carefully clean the blades, my victims staring up at me from the dirt.

Wilting in the face of the shears, I begin to cut them; a brown leaf here, a dead flower there. Sometimes I use my hands and rip them right out at the root.

It’s a fun ritual we share, my plants and I, wondering who is next going to die.

“We’re here about a robbery. Are you the owners?”

Carl stepped forward nervously “I am, yes. That’s just, he’s… my assistant.” He gestured at Norris, who was enthusiastically polishing the jewels they’d been stashing in bags only minutes ago. Too enthusiastically, he realised.

The officers seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Right, can you walk us through what happened here?” said the tall one. He seemed to be the one in charge.

“Well… as you can see, they wrecked my shop.” He gave what he hoped was a sad assessing sweep of the dishevelled surroundings.

“The call mentioned two assailants. Can you provide a description?” As his superior barked this order, the younger officer enthusiastically withdrew a notepad and pen from his breast pocket, poised to immortalise every word Carl said.

“A description?” Carl hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Yes, of course. Well, there was two of them.” Norris coughed nervously from behind the shattered counter. Carl pointedly ignored him.

“One of them was tall,” he continued, “great big oaf of a bloke, red hair, freckles, big nose.”

The officers looked at each other in confusion; “Hang on. You said on the phone they were wearing masks,” the younger one chimed in.

Shit. “They were. Yes, they were wearing masks, both of them. But the big one had his arms out, you know, and I could tell he was definitely a redhead with freckles.” He chuckled nervously, “I mean no one dyes their arm hair ginger do they!”

“I suppose not” drawled the one in charge, disinterested. “Right, and the other one?”

“The other one”, continued Carl, “was shorter, about your height” he gestured at the younger officer, “small build, you know? Looked like he skipped leg day.”

The young officer looked down at his lower half and blushed.

His superior didn’t seem to notice or care, “right, we’ll have officers out on the street looking for them.”

There was a muffled groan from the bathroom. The gag must have loosened. “That’s…” Carl gave a not at all reassuring smile “my other assistant. He’s had terrible tummy upsets since it all happened.” He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially “he’s the nervous type, you know?”

The tall officer raised his eyebrow and seemed to give a pointed glare in his colleague’s direction, as if to say yes, he did indeed know.

“We’ll be on our way then. A team will be round later to take inventory and statements. We’ll let you know if we catch them in the meantime.”

If. If was good.

“Cheerio!” Carl saluted them as they turned to leave, realising at the last second that he was supposed to be recently robbed. He gave a more somber follow-up wave, and threw in a few small head shakes for good measure.

At the sound of the front door closing behind their departed guests, Norris let out a great exhale of air, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

“That was probably the worst idea you’ve ever had…. and yet it worked.”

“It must be the wind.”

“The wind?!” Daryl replied incredulously, for he considered himself quite the amateur meteorologist. “How would the wind have done that?”

“I don’t know. Blown it or something.” John shrugged his shoulders, as if it was impossible to embellish this explanation any further.

“You think the wind, picked up old Gregory’s house, and put it on top of a cliff, undamaged?”

“Well I don’t know, do I? What do you think happened then?”

“Something strange. Something witchy. You know I heard him arguing with that woman? The one who’s always carting those bags around- you noticed how she’s always got a gang of cats following her around?”

He pointed accusingly at the house dangling precariously above them; “I reckon she’s got something to do with this bollocks!”

John looked around uncomfortably. Disagreeing with Daryl never worked out for him.

“Well… alright then boss, what do you want us to do?”

Daryl looked at the house with glee; “Call the gang. We’ve got a job to finish.”

The sound was deafening. A roar, falling and rising, sending white foam crashing against the shore.

Even standing away from the waves, he could feel the spray against his face, smell the salt on his skin. He felt sticky.

The afternoon sun beat down on him, draining him of energy, making him lethargic, tired, weary. He wanted to lie down and let the Great Ocean wash him away.

But he had not come here to be washed away. Tentatively, he walked towards the shore, towards the wild embrace that beckoned there. His feet hurt from the sharp stones and shells he crushed on his way.

He wondered what the humans would have made of this - this roaring beast, wrapping itself around the surface of their world. Did they run from it in terror? Or did they do as he did now, and venture into it?

On reaching the water, he pulled his foot back in shock; it was much colder than he expected. But what had initially felt cold as ice warmed quickly. He dipped his foot back in. He weathered the cold this time, and stood in the lapping waves.

Up close, the roaring wasn’t as loud. It was gentle, rhythmic, like a great beating heart. It comforted him.

He stood like this for a while, his eyes closed against the wind and sun, his body swaying with the waves. He wanted to stay there forever; in this place where his senses were overcome, and his loneliness melted away.

A haunting screech filled the sky; he looked up to see a large white bird, carried on the ocean gusts. It glided across the shore, landing on a rock jutting in to the water.

“At last,” he thought, “some company.”

A darkness, full of hope and possibility; the birthplace of dreams, bearing all the world’s wishes in its embrace.

My heart stops. I’m barely breathing as she starts to make her way across the room.

“Honestly Mary… I was starting to think you’d never figure it out.”

“Who- How do you know my name?” I stutter breathlessly, bumping into a frozen couple mid-make out behind me.

“You don’t remember me?” She croons, the corners of her mouth pick up in a feline smile, as she plucks a martini right out of the outstretched hand of a frozen bar tender.

She grimaces after the first sip and tosses the glass over her shoulder. It bounces off a guy staring unseeing at his phone, then shatters on the ground.

“I’ve… I’ve never met you in my life. Who are you?” My voice betrays my fear, and I grapple with a bar table to put some distance between me and the stranger slowly sauntering towards me.

Her green stare pierces mine, and I’m momentarily struck by the familiarity of her features; something at the back of my mind claws for attention, but her voice pierces my concentration.

“Why, Mary… I’m your mother.”

Her eyes were swollen shut, her throat scratchy and her bladder extremely full. Those were Sarah’s first thoughts upon waking, as the crushing weight of reality settled on her anew.

She decided the bladder needed sorting first, but with her eyes still partially closed, her shins found every piece of sharp furniture on the way to the bathroom.

As she relieved herself, she tried to recall the events of last night, but her memory gave out after the second bottle of wine. She recalled lots of crying - as had become a standard part of her nightly routine - some calls from concerned friends which she’d answered with a slurred “I’m fine… yes it’s Celine Dion, YES AGAIN… Look, I’m fwine, fline, wine? Eurgh…” and then, what else had she done?

As she made her way from the bathroom to the kitchen, in need of an extremely large cup of coffee, her feet hit off empty wine bottles. She wasn’t sure which were from last night, because they’d been building up over the last 3 days and she didn’t have the energy to gather them all up and face the jangling walk of shame to the recycling bin.

Empty food containers lay scattered across the kitchen island, and despite her numbed senses, the reek was palpable. She reached for the cupboard to find that there were no clean mugs, but found a large picnic thermos that would do instead.

As the kettle noisily began to heat, she rubbed her sore eyes and took in the state of the place. When had this become her life? Even with the curtains drawn- a state they’d been in for the past 3 days- she could see the dark smudges of spilt food, wine and tears covering her usually pristine white couch.

On the coffee table lay her dead bouquet of roses. The term ‘bouquet’ was generously applied in this case; the few remaining petals were barely clinging on to the stems, having been flung against every nearby surface in Sarah’s fits of rage, then crushed to her as the loud sobbing wracked her body, and as a final indignity, used as a microphone for her spirited Sad Ballad crescendos.

It depressed her further, seeing the remnants of her wedding bouquet scattered across the room. She’d been meticulous in picking out just the right roses, colourful, fragrant and full of life. Now they lay lifeless on the floor.

She thought about joining them there, until the loud sound of the kettle announcing its readiness brought her back to reality. She knew she should pull herself together already, as her mother had kindly reminded her yesterday as she tried to force her way through the front door.

“I’ll just tidy up a bit darling! You won’t even know I’m here- you could shower you know, wash your hair-“ her pleading had increased in both insistence and sternness with each of Sarah’s rejections, until eventually she’d declared “oh pull yourself together woman!! You’ve got to snap out of this! He was a scoundrel, a waste of space - he would never have made you happy! Better to find that out before you chained yourself to him!”

But he had made her happy. And she thought she’d made him happy. And just like that the tears were welling again. She held her giant thermos of coffee up to her mouth as she scrambled to find her phone. 5% battery remaining. “You and I both”, she thought, as she wiped the smudged and dirty screen.

12 missed calls. Most were from her mother, who’d also followed up by text to say “maybe we could do lunch tomorrow?”, then “Aunt Petunia is still in town for the wedding, she’d love to see you”, and finally “2f why areyou punishing me???!”

Her mother’s aptitude at texting always decreased with her mounting disappointment. More texts from Kayleigh and Hannah, “just checking in?”, and the more subtle “going to the shops- do you need anything? I could stop by! Just say! No pressure!”.

No, she did not fancy company. She was thinking that just as a loud familiar knock sounded from the front door. She felt the blood drain from her face. It couldn’t be… “Sarah, it’s me. We need to talk.” Him. Fuck.

She was going to be very sick.

After legging it out of practice, I narrowly avoided disaster on the bus home. With every bump and turn I was whacked by some tall guy’s obnoxious guitar case, each jab setting off whatever crazy fizzling feeling had made the beakers explode in chemistry. I got off two stops early because the itching under my skin had become unbearable and it felt like I was about to implode. And I’m not having THAT in my obituary!

“Sarah Michaels, promising 15 year old and local rising star, explodes on e45 bus, covering commuters in bodily goo.” No thanks.

I hoped the fresh air would help, and it did, but the moment I closed the front door, the burning feeling was back.

I rushed up to my room, ignoring mum’s shouted inquisition about my day. Heading straight for my bedside table, I picked up the cursed book and started scanning the pages for anything that might explain what the hell was going on with me.

The more confusing diagrams and ancient words I read the more my mind started to panic, and suddenly my whole body was glowing with some sort of insane light.

I was trying to get it under control, when a startled sound from behind made me spin around. I barely managed to catch a glimpse of Matt, standing there with his headphones on and his homework outstretched in surrender, before the light burst out of me.

I was thrown back, and by the time I peeled myself off my bed, he’d vanished. And in his place was a small grey cat… with headphones hanging from its neck.

“Hand it over, now!”

“No!” Cries my desperate 4 year old, my phone clasped in her tiny vice-like grip.

The loud buzzing sends panic through my veins, urging me to reach across the table and yank the phone to my ear.

“Tim, hi! How can I help?” I chirp cheerfully, ignoring that it’s Saturday morning and he’s calling on my personal phone. “Of course, no problem! I’ll send it over now. Anything el…” the sound of the dead dial tone cuts me short, and I turn to see a small head of curls quietly watching the table.

“That wasn’t good,” I admonish, “what have I said about taking mummy’s phone?” She shrinks further into herself, cowering from my glare.

Instead of coaxing a response, I head for my laptop, still on the couch from last night’s late cramming. Immediately, I’m assaulted by the sound of a thousand small bells rising in urgency, hundreds of new demands for answers, comments and time flooding my inbox.

“You promised…” I hear a small voice from the dining table. I don’t look up, too focused on attaching the files I already sent him twice last week.

“This is work. I have to work, you know that.” I reread my note for tone and clarity (making sure I strike the right balance of smart but not too smart, confident but humble, assured but eager to please) and once satisfied, fire off the email.

When I look up she’s gone.

The drawing she wanted to show me lays abandoned among a field of crayons. It’s her and me, triangle dresses and spaghetti hair, holding hands against a bright yellow sun.

I follow the scent of maternal guilt down the hallway, where her bedroom door rests ajar. Inside, she sits cross-legged in front of her notebook, its back propped up against her teddy, a rudimentary Zoom call drawn out across the lined pages. She traces her tiny finger across the brightly coloured keys, all different shapes and sizes, hand crafted by her pens, scissors and glue.

The world is silent and heavy, as I take in the cost of our security. And wonder whether it will ever be worth it.

I’m awoken by the sound of Mother’s hacking cough reverberating down the empty halls. I reach her bedside quickly, braving the dampness of the mid winter air. Her features are gaunt and contorted with pain, as her teeth chatter from the room’s chill.

I stoke the dying embers in the fire, and turn my attention to the bowl of tepid water by her bedside. Soaking a cotton rag, I gently dab at her fevered face. Slowly her grimacing subsides, and her pained gaze meets mine. “Sophie, my darling, is that you?” Her voice is thin as her milky white eyes search mine. “Yes Maman, it’s me.” I pause to brush a damp curl from her brow, “I’m here to take care of you.”

I wash her arms and then her hands, humming as I go about my work. Silver white tears roll down her cheeks, even as her mouth curves in a sentimental smile. She reaches for me, brushing at my curls, stroking my face with reverence. “I missed you my darling.”

“I am right here, Maman.” I give her a comforting smile in return, clasping her hands in mine as our voices join, and our haunting melody fills the cold morning air.

As I think she might be drifting asleep, a knock sounds on the bedroom door. Without invitation, the household staff file in, pushing open curtains and filling the room with the scent of fresh baked bread and jam. A matronly woman hoists my mother upright, stuffing a large cushion behind her back.

“Good morning, Lady Daventree,” she chirps in a cheery tone, “what’s that lovely tune you’re humming?”

“Oh”, my mother responds, as her longing gaze meets mine, “it’s a song my daughter used to sing for me.”