Nefaria--a prose anthology

illusions

The three-in-the-morning air is crisp against my skin, a gentle reminder why I should be curled in a feather-down comforter and watching lazy shadows float along the ceiling. A small part of me yearns to be home, but the other part knows I can't go back. Not while the other side of bed is empty. Empty, only for a week, but empty all the same.

I stuff my hands deeper in my pockets, a ring knocking against my hand. A ring, far too small for my hand.

I pause, seeing a flicker in the store window I walk past. I study the reflection, almost seeing her, her arms interlaced with mine, and leaning against my shoulder with a sweet smile gracing her sweet face. In the reflection, she looks up at me, love shining in her eyes.

I shake my head, walking away before the illusion can overtake my thoughts.

Light rain begins to fall, hitting my face like little icicles set on freezing my skin. I shiver.

A block later, I stop again, glossy black hair shining from beneath an ash tree. The figure's pale hand rests on the bark, and her eye winks at me from the shadows.

I walk on, speeding up my pace.

She's gone, I tell myself, borderline angry with my imagination. She'll never be with me again.

My stomach churns. The temperature seems to drop around me, encasing me in an igloo. Against my best intentions, my legs slow; I feel as if I'm suddenly drudging through an icy lake infested with vines ready to pull me down to the depths.

My foot clangs painfully against a row of metal bars. I hiss in pain, prying my eyes open, which I didn't even know were closed. The gate to the cemetery, depicting a scene of birds flying to the sky, sits in front of me. Beyond lies rows of gravestones and carpets of decaying leaves.

I jump as a group of giggling, drunk women pass by. "Hey, cutie," one calls. The others explode into a fit of laughter. I swear, for just a moment, there was a flash of a short, pale girl smiling at me, before disappearing.

I stare at the group of girls as they walk away, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl again. I don't see her again, but she couldn't be my Bonnie. Ghosts don't exist.

I push open the gate, sending an appalling screeching through the night's silence. My feet shuffle through dying leaves as I dodge through the gravestones on my way through the pathless graveyard. Right by a sweeping willow tree--it's countless, spindly branches reaching down like skeletal fingers--a singular, newly-placed grave sits, surrounded by wreaths of flowers.

I fall to my knees in front of it, taking a hand out of my coat's pocket to run my fingers lightly across the stone's surface. Words are carved into the stone, each stabbing the ever-present knife further and further into my heart.

Rachel Bonnie McKnight

May 29th 1997-May 21st 2020

Beloved wife and daughter

"Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever."

-Mahatma Gandhi

I smile through my tears, freezing cold against the air. That was her favorite quote. She loved to learn. There were many times I woke up in egregious hours of the morning to find her poring over book after book. The only way I could coax her to sleep was to set aside her book and wrap her in my arms. She never did get much sleep on weekdays. I wish I had done something to change that.