Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams Read Online Free PDF

time.”
    Something had
happened, something more than merely passing out, and although she
was unable to put her finger on what exactly it was, she felt her
eyes filling with tears. She was overwhelmed by a strange mix of
emotions; fear, loss, melancholy, confusion, all completely
uprooted from context. Her breathing shuddered and she rested her
eyelids focusing on how heavy they felt, eyes tracing the subtle
wash of shadows. “Did I finish your haircut at least?” she muttered
shakily, still aware of West’s hand on her arm.
    She felt his
weight shift, the couch cushion moving under her as he knelt. His
voice was close to her ear now, still comforting, still firm,
“Charlene, before you look at me, think about what it was that you
saw before you collapsed.”
    She wanted to
disobey his request, her instincts told her that she should look at
him now. She opened her eyes, but it was still uncomfortable to
move her head, and she quickly gave up, closing her eyes again as
she tried to remember. There, in dark recollection, she could see
it, see the reason she had lost control, and in seeing, the fear
returned, her throat closing up, nostrils flaring, brow furrowing.
She lifted her left hand from its resting place on her lap,
fingertips touching her lips as her eyes teared up again
involuntarily. She could see him, picture him sitting in the chair,
the mirror in front of him. There, in the mirror, not Mr Yestler,
not the stranger from down the hall. She knew the man who sat in
the chair, or else she had known him, in recollection, in another
life, too long ago.
    She bit her
lip, her fingers touching her cheek, she thought carefully before
she spoke, “Mr Yestler, on the side table by the television,
there’s a telephone there … do you see it?”
    “Yes.”
    Now that she
understood what was happening, she was calm and collected, “Mr
Yestler, I need you to call an ambulance for me, or my doctor; his
number is written in the back of the little notebook by the
phone.”
    “Charlene,
you’ll be okay, just take some time to breathe, relax and let your
body do its job.”
    “No.” She spoke
clearly, her eyes opening wide, staring at the ceiling, “I am
unwell, and I am in need of medical assistance.”
    It was
impossible but she knew him, this ‘Mr Yestler,’ more completely
than she had known any other man. She knew, and the agony she felt
was so palpable that her breathing slowed and her chest ached
again. When he refused to fetch the phone a second time, it only
went to confirm her suspicion.
    The man’s name
came to her easily. Anthony Statham. He had been a dear friend to
her, but that had been nearly sixty years ago now. This was
dementia, she was certain of it. She knew she must be talking to
someone else, merely imagining that she was talking to Anthony
Statham. She licked her lips, trying to remember the name of the
help who brought her meals and shopping when she was out of sorts.
Janice? Patrice? She couldn’t recall, and that was as sure a sign
as any. She was probably talking nonsense to the poor girl.
    Oh God, she
thought to herself, what was the hair cut? What had she actually
been doing? Janice, or Patrice, or whatever her name was, would
never ask her for a haircut. Her fingers formed a barrier over her
lips now, her hands shaking; she knew she had to stop herself from
talking.
    “Charlene, you
know who I am. You saw my face; you saw enough of me to know for
sure.”
    She closed her
eyes and gulped back tears, her head filling with the white noise
of silent screaming. She had feared this moment for some time now,
probably longer than she cared to admit. When she had turned sixty,
she had started to be concerned about her memory, although Doctor
Sawyers had frequently reassured her that everyone experiences
forgetfulness. He had even joked with her about it the last time
she’d mentioned it, “Miss Osterman, you needn’t worry every time
you forget where you’ve put your keys. Come back to me when