"Haze of Oblivion", by Bloodwitch Luz Oscuria

This is the third excerpt from my novel, "Haze of Oblivion", in its version translated by Andreea Mirică.

The sun has barely risen when I woke up. I'm not surprised; I was expecting little sleep, considering my afternoon nap from yesterday. It’s Sunday. The end of a hectic week! And while I don't know what the next one will have in store for me, as far as good or bad ‘surprises’ are concerned, I can't wait for it to start. I feel like I've lost nearly everything. And I did; I have to accept the obvious.

After getting out of bed, I walk unsteadily towards the kitchen. I know I have some sandwich bread somewhere, and I could toast a few slices. With a little butter it would make a decent breakfast. Once again, I don't know what I'm going to do today. The coming hours may not be very productive, especially since it’s Sunday.

I managed to get my hands on the sandwich bread. It was well hidden, at the back of one of my cupboard drawers. The expiration date is very close, but not passed, so that will do. I place two slices in the toaster, and take the butter out of the fridge to put it on the table, before taking a knife from the drawer under the sink.

The toaster sends my slices back up. I take care not to burn myself while picking them up. Burning my fingers would be the last straw. The marks I have on my face since the day before yesterday are enough, so I don't want to add any more to them. Anyway, at least my nose hasn't started bleeding again.

I take a seat at the table. I miss my son. Usually, on Sundays, the two of us sit around this table and have breakfast together. I've been giving him the same thing every time since he stopped drinking from his baby bottle: a bowl of chocolate cereal soaked in milk, and a glass of orange juice. Except that there is no more orange juice in the fridge. It was part of what I was supposed to buy during my grocery shopping which was cut short on Monday. Fortunately my son is not with me. I wouldn't have wanted to have to explain to him why he couldn't have his glass of orange juice like he's used to. Just because I couldn't do my shopping.

The same grocery shopping that ended up with the murder of the cashier in the convenience store. God, when I think of the friends she must have had, my stomach turns. It wasn’t something that had crossed my mind until now. She’d have done better to stay where she was. I feel bad for this woman, once again. For her part, she doesn't have to think about this now.

I’m surprised that Agent Couton has told me that she’ll keep me up to speed on this matter soon. I'm not sure why, and I wonder what I’ve still got to do with all this. I'm only a witness, and I didn't actually see that much. Unless she's hiding details from me that I'm not supposed to know.

My ears are suddenly drawn to a noise from outside. I get up and walk towards the living room. At the window, I see a small bird sitting on the ledge, banging the glass with its beak. What can this mean? Good or bad news? I couldn’t say. I've never been able to interpret that sort of thing. So I don't know if I should worry, or if I don't have any reason to worry at all.

My son should’ve been here; he would’ve thought the scene was fantastic. He’s such as to marvel at every little nothing, and I’ve always found that very cute. Even when he was little and I was still taking him out in his baby stroller, he stared with disproportionate intensity at everything that came before his eyes. The slightest noise caught his attention. Oh! It caused me a few sleepless nights of course, because night is the time when the tiniest sound takes on another dimension.

Each time it happened, I’d go soundlessly into his room with my flashlight, and I’d tiptoe towards him in order to hug him, to give him a big warm hug and reassure him through sympathetic words. Each time, he started to cry as soon as he saw me approach, before finally bursting out laughing, with that childish and cute laugh that I always loved about him. Each time, I only returned to my room after I put him back to sleep in my arms and then put him in bed, with the anguish of waking him up and having to start over.

And each time, the next morning, he would wake up with a smile from ear to ear. From the moment he was able to speak, he often thanked me for intervening to put his fears to rest, including the most absurd ones. I think he was often aware that these reactions were a little silly. And even when he couldn't talk yet, he knew how to apologize in his own way, by means of his large, expressive eyes.

I miss those moments of complicity so terribly today. William has grown up, and I have to get used to this idea that nothing will ever be the same again. This is how time flies, and can’t be stopped. I also have to admit that there are times when he just doesn't want to see me, and prefers to stay with Claire. I have to accept that he can sometimes find her more reassuring than me. I'm not a perfect mother, far from it. I have flaws enough; I know I do.

I wonder how he’d interpret my absences when he is older. All those evenings when I won't come home at all. I know very well that I won’t lose this nasty habit that I have had for so many years now. I don't know how I’ll answer to the questions he is bound to ask me in a few years’ time. I think it would be better, rather than attempting to prepare some vague explanations, to just wait for the questions to come from him, and answer on the spot, in a natural way.

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