Bernard walked into to Fatima's room, the air still carrying the faint echo of Maisie's earlier distress. "Fatima, why was Maisie crying?" His voice was low, filled with concern.
"Is she crying?" Fatima replied her tone dismissive as she continued to get ready for bed. "I don't know. Why would she be crying?"
"Her eyes were puffy, and there was tracks of dry tears on her cheeks," Bernard persisted, his gaze dead and unwavering.
Fatima shrugged a dismissive gesture.
"Maybe because I reprimanded her a little, for failing."
Bernard brow furrowed. "A child crying to that extent isn't considered a 'little reprimand', Fatima!."
"She's just being dramatic," Fatima retorted, gazing at a magazine.
"Dramatic? what do you mean, dramatic?" Bernard voice rose slightly, a hint of frustration creeping in. "You know she's still a child, right? Wait! Didn't you say she came out third? So how is that failing?"
Fatima finally looked up, her expression hardened. "I do not condole failure. A Child of Mine must be the first, or nothing else."
"How is it a failure, Fatima?" Bernard voice was incredulous. "A child coming out third in a competition that more than twenty students participated in, and you call it a failure?!" He looked at his wife with a mix of frustration and disbelief, then his gaze drift to the wall, as if he could see Maisie through the plaster and paint.
"How can she be so slow?" Fatima hissed, her words laced with venom that made Bernard flinched. "Isn't she Incompetent, dull and ulterly useless!" Her hands clenched in a tight fist. "That is how she got her son killed, Bernard."
The accusation hung in the air, thick and pressing, the use of his name a chilling indication of her volatile state.
"No Fatima!" "Don't you dare". Bernard raised his voice shouting at Fatima. His face drained of colour. The initial disbelief in his eyes morphed into a stark horror. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell slightly open, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. His usual passive demeanor vanished replaced by a stark pained rigidity.
He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Fatima, a desperate plea forming in his eyes. "She didn't kill him, Fatima. It was a mistake, a terrible accident. She was just a child. You can't keep blaming her for that." His voice was low, each word a careful step on fragile ground.
Fatima's chest heaved, her breath coming in ragging gasp. "If she hadn't gone to carry him that day..." Her voice broke, sobs escaping her lips... "my child will still be alive."
"Fatima, no!..." Bernard reached for Fatima his face contoured with anguish a mirror of the pain that tore through his wife. A desperate plea of reason, for an end to this destructive circle of blame. "You can't say that, Fatima".
"Why? Is she not a Murderer. I regret given birth to that devil of a child."
"Fatima?!" I renounce slap sound resonated in the air. Fatima held her cheek.
"You will not say such thing about my child, not now not ever." Bernard stormed out filled with anger.
Fatima fell on her bed crying, thinking about what had happened that day.
The cerulean sanctuary of Aaron's room, a space meticulously organized with the gentle hues of boyhood, became a jarring stage for his unrestrained cries. The blue of the walls, meant to soothe and cradle. Aaron, a tender bud of life encased in the practical charm of an overalls pinafore that swallowed his small frame from the tips of his emerging toes to the crown of his head, was the source of the escalating lament. His loud and constant crying, bounced off the calm still room, each cry sounded like a small, vibrating bell echoing in the quiet house.
In the next room, which seemed a little bigger, Maisie, who was only seven and just starting to experience childhood, heard the constant cries. "Isn't that Aaron's voice?" A sense of childish responsibility, an instinct to soothe the source of the disturbance, stirred within her. She got out of her cozy bed.
Her footsteps, light carried her from the familiar confines of her own space into the connecting hallway. "Mom? I think Aaron is crying," she announced to the empty corridor, her voice tinged with a rising worry. She proceeded towards the origin of the sound, Aaron's room beckoning with its insistent distress signals. Upon reaching inside, she peered into the small cradle, her brow furrowed in concern. "Aaron, please stop crying," she begged, her small hand reaching out to hold his tiny fist. Maisie wanted to calm him down. But when she touches him, his cry only seems to worsen. The cries intensified, the small body trembling, the sound now a piercing, unbroken lament that vibrated through the very air.
Why does he keep crying? I think should go call Mom. Mommy would know what to do. The thought, a beacon of hope at her rising concern, so she quickly went to find her mother. Maisie retraced her steps, her small feet making soft sounds on the floor, towards her mother's room. Reaching the doorway, she found it empty, the neatly made bed offering no solace. Where else could her mother be? The study, a room usually imbued with the quiet rustle of papers and her mother's focused presence, was empty. The bathroom was quite and full of steamy from a recent shower, but her mother was not there. Even the kitchen, the heart of their home, usually smelling good from cooking food, stood deserted.
Maisie started to feel more and more worried. Her mother wasn't anywhere. She returned to Aaron's room, the relentless crying, a constant soundtrack to her fruitless search. "Aaron, please don't cry," she whispered again, her voice, sounding a little hopeless . "I could not find Mom." But he kept crying anyway, clearly showing that he needed something she couldn't give him.
Suddenly, Maisie had an idea, something she had seen her mother do. She would pick Aaron up, hold him close, the way her mother often did. But the sides of the cradle was an obstacle. Determpind, her gaze fell upon a small child-sized chair tucked in a corner. With a surge of determination, she dragged it across the floor, its legs scraping against the tile. Standing carefully on its surface, she could finally managed to reach into the cradle, her small arms straining as she lifted Aaron, who is surprisingly heavy for her small arms.
Now holding Aaron awkwardly in her arms, she climbed down from the chair. Instinctively, she remembered another of her mother's soothing technique, a soft, gentle shake. But when Maisie did it, it wasn't as smooth as her mother's touch, which only seemed to agitate Aaron further. Just as a wave of panic threatened to engulf her, a sound reached her ears, the click of the front door opening, followed by the familiar tone of her mother's voice.
Relief washed over Maisie, like a wave washing over her fear. "Aaron, Mom was outside!" She said happily. "Let's go meet her." Clutching Aaron tightly, whose small body shifted with a surprising weight in her arms as she moves, she turned towards the stairs.
"Mom? Aaron has been crying. I looked everywhere for you but could not find you," she called out, her small voice echoing in the stairwell as she began her descent, Aaron a precious wriggling weight against her chest.
"MAISIE, NO!" The loud, sharp, strangled cry ripple through the air. A sound filled with horror that it seemed to physically stop time. Fatima stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, her face a mask of utter terror, her hand suddenly numb as the phone slipped from her grasp, clattering against the floor, the sound a prelude to the unfolding catastrophe. Her eyes, wide with disbelief and dawning horror, were fixed on the unthinkable.
Aaron, the small, precious life in Maisie's arms, had slipped. He was falling through the air, tiny, helpless form moving silently and horribly against the familiar staircase. He's falling! a fleeting thought, sharp with terror pierced Maisie's mind. Her small hands, which was hoping to protect him, had failed. He rolled down the stairs in a sickening, uncontrolled way, his small body hitting each hard step.
"NO!!!" Fatima screamed loudly, a painful sound that broke the quiet of the house. She ran forward, desperately hoping to catch him, to go back to before he fell. But time kept moving. Before Fatima could reach him, before her hands could help. Aaron hit the bottom of the stairs.
A sickening sound resonated through the hallway, and then Fatima saw something awful. A crimson trail, thin at first, began to snake down the shiny floor, each drop showing the brutal reality. A bright, puddle of blood started to form around Aaron's small, still head.
A loud, agonizing scream, wild and uncontrolled, broke the shocked silence that followed after the fall. It was a sound that seemed to tear through the whole house, showing the mother's unbelievable pain. "Maisie… what have you done?" Fatima's voice shook, a quiet, broken whisper full of disbelief and a terrible accusation.
Maisie stood frozen on the middle of the stairs, her small body stiff, her eyes wide and empty. It was like her spirit had moment, leaving just a fragile shell. The joy of seeing her mother, the relief of the open door, had been suddenly destroyed, by something so horrible she couldn't understand it. The weight of trying to help, her innocent wish, had end up in this terrible tragedy. The world around her seemed to spin and become blurry, the vibrant colors of the house fading away, leaving only the shocking, awful sight of the blood on the stairs. The echo of her mother's accusing question stayed in the air, a scary hint of the blame that was yet to come.
"I WILL NEVER FORGIVE HER," Fatima declared, amidst her tears.