Page 32 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Mama used to serenade me with a fable, an allegory wrapped in gentle whispers. It told of a woman with silver strands, a story that once danced over my ears without meaning. But now, those words, once cryptic, echo through my mind with a clear clarity, each syllable ringing like a bell. This sickness, the one that has made a home deep within my bones, once felt like a breathing terror. It was a noxious parasite, burrowing beneath my skin, its presence a constant drain, feeding on my very essence and leaving me hollow and gasping.

Her eyes were windows to the cruelty she endured. They voiced the anguish her mouth failed to yell. Her ears caught on to the venomous spit that dribbled from their tongues. Her hands wielded daggers through their hearts.

I loathed it

Waardenburg syndromeA genetic condition I was born to, and one I will die with. It is a bitter irony to be so youngand grow the will to push away the ignorance of others. Their lack of understanding was my misery.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Their words were meant to break her to her knees, but instead they became the needles that bleed them even. The devil was once an angel and so was she.

It might have been child’s play to them to gauge their eyes and point their fingers, but it was daunting being at the receiving end. In a sea of green vines, I’m the prickling thorn.

Anger is like a poison, sinking into your veins and leaving flames of hurt to lick your soul. It was fury that made her, but it was the promise of peace that saved her.

Mama was spirited, with a soul as graceful as a dance. She embodied the 1940s to perfection, her Kitty Foyle dress and pearls a timeless signature. By day, she was the picture of sweetness. A tea-loving housewife. The baker who filled the house with warmth and the scent of fresh bread. But when night came, she slipped away, hiding behind the walls that housed her patients, retreating into a quiet world of care and compassion that only the night could hold.

“They’re sick and misunderstood, baby, and I’m only trying to make them feel better and seen.”

Mama was known as the psychiatrist who mended fractured minds, the healer who stitched broken souls back together. Dr. Holly Fontaine, they called her—the ‘crazed doctor,’ they whispered behind closed doors. But there was nothing mad about her. She was as dedicated to her work as she was to her family, a force of unwavering passion that flowed through every part of her life. She believed in redemption, in healing, in the possibility of finding peace within chaos. To her, the human mind was a delicate puzzle, and she had the gift to put it back together.

Twice a week, we would drive up the winding mountain roads to the psychiatric institution where Mama worked. The air always felt different there, colder, as though it held its breath. Behind the glass cube, we would watch her. From that silent, distant place, she would move with purpose, each action deliberate, each glance filled with care. Even though the barrier separated us, I could still feel the warmth of her presence, steady and unwavering. In that place, where everything seemed uncertain, she was a constant, a calming force amidst the chaos.

“It’s unorthodox, but they’re most vulnerable when they believe the world is asleep.”

“But he’s hiding, Mama,” my voice was barely a murmur as my eyes narrowed at the boy, cloaked in shadow, watching us from the dark.

“Bastian, that’s his name, sweetheart. Come sit with me,” she says softly, taking my small hand in hers and leading us to the sofa.

“Come out, Bastian. I want you to meet my daughter, Essa.”

I’m not scared, but I lean into Mama’s touch, and in her arms, she pulls me closer. The boy slowly comes out from the corner and sits across from us.

Bastian keeps his head down, his hoodie hiding his face. But when he finally looks up, the scar on his cheek makes me feel cold. It looks really painful. I shudder and Mama’s hand gently rubs my back.

“Hey mama,” I say, letting my tote bag slip from my shoulder, the fabric rustling as I drape it over the ear of the chair. “Look, I brought your favorites.” A faint, bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I raise the apricot roses, a gesture meant for her, though I know she cannot see. The petals glow faintly against the dull light, their orange hueslike faint embers in the cold room. I move to discard the wilting flowers—their frailty a stark reminder of time slipping by—and carefully empty the old water, a stagnant thing now, into the bathroom sink and place the vase back on her bedside with the unwilted roses.

Grey walls and that goddamn antiseptic smell.

I pause, holding my breath for a moment longer than usual, before I place a gentle kiss on her forehead. It’s a careful kiss, one that doesn’t disturb the tubes and wires that tether her to life. Her skin is still warm, but it feels like a distant echo of what once was. I stay there, a pang of sorrow tightening my chest, staring at her face. It’s peaceful in a way, though there’s no soul behind those still features anymore. I try not to think about it, but I can’t help myself. Hours have slipped into months, and my heart has grown numb to the hope I once held. Hope that feels more like a forgotten dream now, scattered and fragile. I know my mother is gone. Her body still lives, but it’s not her. I can feel it. And while her doctor insists I let her rest, I am still caught in the denial of it all, clinging to the last thread of a life that once was.

Outside, the storm rages. Thunder rips the sky apart, a fury that matches the storm in my heart. The rain falls in torrents, heavy and relentless, soaking everything in its path. The world outside is violent in its weeping.

“Did you have fun tonight, my sweet girl?” Mama’s voice is soft and warm, as she looks at me through the rear-view mirror.

Tonight we celebrated my birthday, an evening filled with laughter and song, the joy of simple pleasures. The karaoke, the clinking of glasses, the camera flashes—mama always capturing moments, never letting a single one slip away.

“Idid, thank you.”

“No need, fleur,” Papa chimes in, his voice light, teasing. “Anything to put a smile on my favorite daughter’s face.”

“I’m your only daughter.” I laugh softly.

Most days, I don’t remember that night, not clearly. And somewhere between the thick fog of denial and the aching void of truth, those memories are tucked away. Hidden in a place I try not to go, because it hurts too much to face it. But the truth of it is, I know how it feels to be alone. To feel like an orphan. It’s like a slow, endless death, each day another wound to bear.

How ironic to lose your parents on your birthday.

“I met a man,” I say to the empty room, my voice barely above a whisper. The heaviness of my own words feel strange, as if they belong to someone else. “He is an enigma. You would’ve liked him, mama.”

The room stands silent, holding its breath with me. I wait for her reply, but it never comes. I know better.

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