6 February 2013
Niamh was dead. My wife, my, how do they say it, estranged wife, his mother.
She lay at the bottom of the stairs; limbs askew on the cold Victorian tiled floor. The perfect Christie chalk outline. The terror of a mothers love still masked upon her beautiful face. God! where did it all go wrong? Why didn't I listen to her? Why didn't I believe?
She knew it was Jacob who stopped the baby crying; our baby, his sister, Grace. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is what the coroner said, and that's what I wanted to believe. Any other explanation did not exist in my realm of normality. She knew though; Niamh said he was different, said he had changed, but he was still my boy.
It tore us apart, the guilt, the silence, the tears, the accusations, and all along he would just sit and watch. Staring.
I didn't notice the sparkle of joy in his eyes slowly fade; change colour over time. But how could I? I left. I couldn't take it any longer. The strangers in the house, the mediums, the priests, the do-gooders. I thought she was in denial, I thought she couldn't cope with Graces death. I tried to get her help; we even tried counselling, but it was too late.
That was three years ago. The drawings started when I left, the accidents, the noises. Niamh phoned constantly, at first I listened and appeased, in the end I didn't pick up.
That was until the day he disappeared.
The Room. III • Opuss № I