Convicted - Romig Aleatha (мир книг .TXT) 📗
Instead of fear, Claire felt relief. “Oh, you’re safe—I was so afraid.”
The commotion outside the office became louder with voices and footsteps. Nichol’s cries resumed as cold water came raining down from the ceiling. When Claire turned back toward Catherine, she saw the gun. It wasn’t big; nevertheless, it was pointed directly at her and Nichol. Tony saw it too.
They say time slows down during life threatening events. Supposedly, your entire life flashes before your eyes. Claire wasn’t seeing her entire life, only the part that mattered, only the part that included Tony and Nichol. Voices spoke and chaos erupted on all sides, but Claire didn’t notice. Her attention was monopolized by the threat in Catherine’s hand, as well as the growing fire crackling and smoldering around them—consuming their home.
Tony’s voice rang above the chaos, penetrating the smoke and sprinkler induced rain. “Get out, get Nichol out!”
As Claire moved to obey, she saw Catherine’s expression change before her eyes. Emerging from the woman who’d consoled her over the years was the sadistic smile from her nightmare, yet this time, it was real, and she was repeating their daughter’s name, “Nichol?” Turning the gun toward Tony, she asked incredulously, “Nichol? You named a Rawls—Nichol?”
He didn’t answer; instead, he hit the gun free of her hand. In the commotion, it fell near Claire’s feet. She heard his command, “Claire, get the gun!”
Her wet hands searched for the weapon, and water blurred her vision. Bending down, she didn’t see Catherine rush forward until she was right there. Claire expected a fight for the gun; instead, Catherine grabbed Nichol from her arms. The next few seconds melted together in a space and time haze. Tony fought for their daughter as Claire secured the gun in her grip.
Phil’s voice yelled above the fray of Tony’s loud accusations. Nichol cried and Catherine...
Claire didn’t intend to pull the trigger. She was trying to hold the gun steady, but when Phil seized her shoulders, her finger depressed the small lever. The deafening bang drowned out the commotion, removing all other sounds. Through the smoke and water, Claire watched in horror as the three people before her fell to the ground.
Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not a twin .
—Barbara Kingsolver
The autumn sun warmed the days, and the darkness cooled the nights. Claire’s knuckles blanched as the death-grip on her pen refused to subside. She knew Meredith would arrive soon with her evening meal, and they had plans to go out onto the grounds. Courtney was visiting again; nevertheless, Claire’s present confidants and their support couldn’t take away her past—no longer could the consequences of Claire’s truth be denied.
Dr. Brown had told Claire to write—just write. No other directives had been given, nor restrictions. Once Claire was confident that her writings were safe from the eyes of others, the good and bad memories of her past came to life on each page. Painstakingly, she filled notebook after notebook. With her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Claire’s hand seemed to take on a life of its own. This reflective therapy had been effective. She now knew why her mind had shut down. She understood why she had lost touch with reality. After enduring so much—so many highs—so many lows—she couldn’t take anymore.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that Nichol was alive and well or the hope that one day she’d be allowed to hold, care for, and love her daughter. No matter the reason, Claire knew before all else, she needed to face the truth of her conviction...She continued to write—
The office filled with smoke. It’d been a haze, but after Tony opened the door, waves of dense gray saturated the air, filling every void and compartment. As it consumed our history, I worried about our future. I worried about Nichol. I knew I needed to get her out of the fire, yet the aroma of burning wood and crackling of the flames also filled me with an unnatural comforting sense of deja vu, one which momentarily, replaced the feeling of loss. I know it sounds unreal, but instead of seeing the fire before me—the one that threatened the lives of those I held the dearest—I, for a split second, remembered other fires. I remembered the Iowa state prison incinerator and couldn’t help wonder, if only I’d left the past in ashes, then would we all be safe today?
I remember hearing voices and chaos coming from all directions. I couldn’t see them, and I really couldn’t hear their words. My attention volleyed between the flames and Catherine’s gun; however, other scenes filled my memories. Is this what happens when you face death? I’ve heard your entire life passes before your eyes. Maybe that was what was happening. I knew at that moment death was imminent.
Could that be the answer for the last two years? Was my break with reality—as the doctors call it—my self-imposed death? After what I did, it’d make sense. After all, I’ve learned actions have consequences.
In those few seconds—that took a lifetime—I remembered scenes of surrender and desperation. All the memories I’d successfully compartmentalized away instantaneously proclaimed their presence, only to fade into the gray smoke. With Nichol still in my arms, I took a step back and rubbed my burning eyes. Still there were other scenes playing out before me. They weren’t of oppression or vengeance—no, in those last seconds, I remembered true love and affection. I prayed those scenes would prevail; however, when I closed my eyes they too disappeared into the growing haze and mayhem.
I knew that I couldn’t fall down and surrender to the fire or Catherine’s gun. I’d surrendered too many times, yet I knew no matter what choice I made, our lives would never be the same. I just didn’t realize the magnitude of that realization.
For once, with not only my life at stake, but those of my daughter and husband, I chose to face the reality. With soot covering my face and those around me, I stood tall and saw the horror in Tony’s eyes. I couldn’t surrender—I couldn’t give into emotion, not yet. In my heart, I knew there were cards yet to see—the game wasn’t over—I knew the rules—and I wouldn’t disappoint.
Claire wiped the tears from her eyes. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying until the large droplets of moisture hit the ink on her paper, causing her words to bleed.
She looked at the clock. Meredith would be there in less than ten minutes. She should stop writing, yet the memories were too clear. Claire needed to finish the story—
Nichol’s cries cut through the cold water that fell from the ceiling. Tony was yelling—telling me to get her out of the house. If only I’d listened. Of all the times I’d obeyed him, ironically, this was when I chose to exert my independence.
I’ve asked myself why, and I’ve seen the answer in my nightmares. It was the look in Catherine’s eyes as she was saying Nichol’s name. That look haunts me to this day.
Everything happened so fast. Tony knocked the gun away from Catherine. He told me to pick it up, so I did. Catherine rushed toward me and, oh God—I can’t keep writing. If I write it—it’s real.
Closing the notebook, Claire placed it in a drawer, went to the bathroom, and washed her face. She didn’t want Meredith to find her in this state. When she returned to her quiet room, Claire looked around at all the new items: the colorful throw pillows, the new bedspread, and the pictures on her dresser. It broke her heart to see Nichol’s big brown eyes. They looked so much like her father’s.
