When she turned the key in the lock and stepped into the house, her new home, the one she'd paid for, the one she owned, Donna had expected to feel satisfied, proud of herself, like she was an achiever at last. To her surprise, what flooded through her was a mixture of joy, relief and grief. Joy that at last she had found her place in the world, relief that this particularly part of the journey was over at last, and grief for all of the pain and turmoil that had gone before.
She allowed the feelings to flow through her, then wiped the tears away and set about the slow process of making this place her own. She had a single suitcase with her, and she carefully packed her clothes into the wardrobe and placed the porcelain animals inherited from her great-aunt on the mantel.
Then she went to the kitchen and made herself a simple meal, sitting at the table, washing the bolognaise down with a glass of water from the tap, and looking forward to filling the house with plants, paintings and music.
She went to bed early, enjoying the silence, and slept better than she had in years.
For the first couple of hours at least.
In the small hours, she woke disoriented, unsure at first where she was. She reached for a bedside lamp that wasn't there, then fumbled for her phone... and then she stopped. There were noises downstairs.
Donna froze, her breath held. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, her pulse as the blood rushed past her eardrums, and beyond that a muffled scuffling noise, of feet moving on the stone floor of the kitchen.
And then she heard voices, coming at the same time from the kitchen beneath her and from very far away. Children and adults, singing.
"Happy birthday to you!" they sang. "Happy birthday to you!"
She struggled to hear which child they were singing too, but the name in the song was hidden by a barking dog in a nearby garden.
Donna woke to bright sunlight on the bed from the curtain-less windows. She went to the toilet, then made her way downstairs.
In the kitchen, she filled the old-fashioned whistle kettle and placed it on the stove... and then she stopped.
The hiss of the kettle built as the water began to warm.
Donna turned.
There, on the table, was the mashed remains of a birthday cake, a single extinguished candle stuck in the icing, crumbs strewn everywhere.
The dream came flooding back.
She reached out to touch the cake, to check if it was real.
The wick of the candle sparked, then burst into flame.
Donna gasped.
The candle burned on.
The kettle whistled, the water boiling.
Donna broke from the mesmeric hold the birthday cake seemed to have on her, and turned away, taking the kettle from the stove, burning her hand in the process.
"Goddamn it!" she cried, and ran her hand under the cold tap.
As the pain eased, she turned back to the table...
A curl of candle-smoke hung in the air above the place where the cake had been, but the table was empty.
She allowed the feelings to flow through her, then wiped the tears away and set about the slow process of making this place her own. She had a single suitcase with her, and she carefully packed her clothes into the wardrobe and placed the porcelain animals inherited from her great-aunt on the mantel.
Then she went to the kitchen and made herself a simple meal, sitting at the table, washing the bolognaise down with a glass of water from the tap, and looking forward to filling the house with plants, paintings and music.
She went to bed early, enjoying the silence, and slept better than she had in years.
For the first couple of hours at least.
In the small hours, she woke disoriented, unsure at first where she was. She reached for a bedside lamp that wasn't there, then fumbled for her phone... and then she stopped. There were noises downstairs.
Donna froze, her breath held. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, her pulse as the blood rushed past her eardrums, and beyond that a muffled scuffling noise, of feet moving on the stone floor of the kitchen.
And then she heard voices, coming at the same time from the kitchen beneath her and from very far away. Children and adults, singing.
"Happy birthday to you!" they sang. "Happy birthday to you!"
She struggled to hear which child they were singing too, but the name in the song was hidden by a barking dog in a nearby garden.
Donna woke to bright sunlight on the bed from the curtain-less windows. She went to the toilet, then made her way downstairs.
In the kitchen, she filled the old-fashioned whistle kettle and placed it on the stove... and then she stopped.
The hiss of the kettle built as the water began to warm.
Donna turned.
There, on the table, was the mashed remains of a birthday cake, a single extinguished candle stuck in the icing, crumbs strewn everywhere.
The dream came flooding back.
She reached out to touch the cake, to check if it was real.
The wick of the candle sparked, then burst into flame.
Donna gasped.
The candle burned on.
The kettle whistled, the water boiling.
Donna broke from the mesmeric hold the birthday cake seemed to have on her, and turned away, taking the kettle from the stove, burning her hand in the process.
"Goddamn it!" she cried, and ran her hand under the cold tap.
As the pain eased, she turned back to the table...
A curl of candle-smoke hung in the air above the place where the cake had been, but the table was empty.
