I rest my chin on top of my hands, bending my body forward as I listen to him speak whatever it is for me to know. I stopped drinking the beverage as the ice started to melt, making it taste more like water than what it was intended to taste like. Instead, I paid great attention to what he was saying as it was being revealed to my ears.

"I've known Cora since our first year in college. Both of us took fine arts, and I think your dad took journalism. They met at an art show, and I was there. Your dad was writing an article for the school paper, and your mom was one of the students whose work was handpicked by our art professor to be displayed at an art event."

The story seemed familiar as I remember the time Elise asked dad to tell us the story of how they met instead of reading us a bedtime story that one particular night. I remember him telling us that she never looked him in the eyes when they spoke to each other. She spoke primarily about the beauties of art as she gazes up at the ceiling, with her eyes sparkling, even in the dimmed lighting.

"Your mother, Cora..." Bill says, scratching his chin. "She suffered from a lot of things. Emotionally, physically, and mentally-wise."

He raised his newly ordered, steaming cup of cappuccino. As he takes a sip of his coffee, I observe his eyes crossing as he looks at what's inside of his mug.

"And as a creative, you can notice how she easily depicted those into her work," He continues to speak as soon as he placed the mug on the table, "The most natural form of art is the power of emotion. If you can't feel it, you wouldn't be able to use it to the best of your advantage. That's why your mom is one of the best artists."

I've watched my mom paint before, multiple times. How she deftly raises a paintbrush, dabs the bristle into some wet paint, and then lets her finger and hand flow freely as she paints with such confidence that it appears as though her mind is constantly at peace. I can only imagine her thoughts projecting a picture that she could only see with her eyes while the brush fill in the empty parts of the canvas.

"She was heavily traumatized by the abuse of your grandfather, and I don't recall much of the other details but I do remember the day he went to one of our art shows in New York during our sophomore year of college. She often seemed uneasy and unresponsive when others asked about her work, which I thought was highly unusual for her."

I laid back, taking in the conversation. Allowing my brain to process the new information it was taking in.

"She was staring at him intently. I remember her asking him to leave and telling him he wasn't welcome when she approached him. I vividly remember Cora pushing him and breaking one of the designs in the exhibit when he fondled her thigh."

I feel a surge of disgust washing over me as I picture how the scene unfolded in my head, "What about dad? I remember you two were in an argument."

I was seven years old when it happened. The first time I had seen my father raising a fist and aiming it at someone else's face. He was the type of person who never engaged in heated arguments with others and was best at suppressing and hiding his feelings, just like Elise usually was.

He chuckles to himself, almost bitterly, which I found odd.

"I believe your father never really liked me," he says. There's a look in his eyes as he recalls the moment with him, and I could tell that he somewhat hated him, too. "He's an insecure person. He never liked the closeness of Cora and I's relationship, even as friends."

I scoffed at his remark about my father because I knew it wasn't true. My father has always had self-confidence and believed in himself. When it came to issues that didn't directly affect him, he tends to be dismissive. He was aware of his boundaries as the person he is, and he wouldn't even waste his time meddling in the affairs of others.

Bill shrugs, "It's true. Though, I don't think you'll be able to remember that because it was a long time ago," he says, "And I don't hate your father."

He blinks multiple times as he held my gaze, smiling. I let the silence prevail between us, giving us a momentary break and for my mind to continue parsing over the specifics of the topics I didn't know much about.

❀

I kindly refused his offer to drive me back to Carlsbad since I still needed to get the note, which was the main reason I came here in the first place. I didn't tell him anything about the notes and the paintings nor the reason why I was here when he asked. I smoothly shrugged off his question the way he shrugged off some of mine.

I knew I had no doubts after hearing him talk about my mother and her work. Though I was genuinely interested to know why he suddenly left, and when he told me the reason why it was because he received a job opportunity in Paris. But why he didn't attend my parents' burial is still up for debate.

Whatever it was, I was sure that there was more he could have told me but chose not to.

After I got the note, I waited for the next bus home, which would arrive an hour before the next department. While waiting for the bus, I stared at the note and read the message many times while my head flashes back to the conversation I had with Bill earlier.

into the wild,

my footprints disappear.

lost and found,

with your love; evergreen.

out over the FIELDS,

the light of dawn was out OF reach;

we say goodbye to this lonely PEACE.

heavy enough,

we both disappear.

❀

In the complete blackness of the night, it was cold and misty. The only thing that was keeping my body warm was a bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face. I propelled myself cautiously forward while taking hesitant steps, sporadic shivers acting as a reminder of my fragility. I gave myself a little boost of energy to keep moving by thinking that I'll be able to reach home in a few minutes if I continue without a pause.

A few meters in front of me, a street lamp and its brightness emanated a comforting warmth as I approached it, assuaging my deep fear of the blackness that extends down the road.

After spending some time savoring and letting its soothing warmth calm me, I unexpectedly discovered that I was securely planted to the ground. The solid ground I had believed I was standing on had changed as I peered down into quicksand, and the more I struggled to control my anxiety, the deeper it sucked me in.

Muttering questions to myself as to why there was quicksand in the middle of the road on the way home, I see a person running toward me. I open my mouth but my throat tightens, failing to scream. In a blink of an eye, the quicksand collapsed and I fell, though, unsure whether I was floating or continuously falling.

Mirrors encircled me as I landed, standing tall on my feet. I see myself from every angle, though with various facial expressions. The corners of one of my lips were turned downward, while the other's cheeks rose and the eyes twitched slightly in a smile. When I look over to the other side, I notice that I am crying, that one of my eyebrows has drawn closer together in sorrow, and that the other is shifting her weight from one foot to the other while chewing its nails.

"What the hell?" I thought, loudly, hearing my voice echo inside the room.

One of us began screaming in the next instant. They all began screaming, sending me into a state of intense anxiety as though I were seeing dominoes fall as a result of the energy's chain reaction from one form to another. I swing my foot and kick the mirror in front of me as I shield my ears from the obnoxious screams of immense suffering. I watch as a little crack gradually becomes larger, shattering the mirror. Without thinking, I began to flee as total darkness descended upon me.

Unable to see my path clearly, I continue to run with no source of light. My ears started to ring as I yelled and heard my shouts being repeated back to me. I slowed down and started to walk as I progressively lost energy from sprinting and grew disoriented by the pitch-blackness.

A light suddenly flickers on above me and I see another person walking toward me as the light on top of their head follows them with every step they make. This is getting weirder. I stood still, knowing that I wanted to flee, but my curiosity of wanting to see who it was got the best of me.

She. She stopped walking and I just stared at her.

"Hello?" I hear my voice echo.

She slowly raises her arm, then points a finger at me. The light above her caused her bangs to cast a shadow over her eyes, as I was unable to meet her eyes directly.

"It's my fault."

When she said that, a chill ran down my spine when I heard her familiar voice. As her cries resounded, she covered her face with the palm of her hands. I headed in her direction, but it cost me more and more energy from me.

She quickly stopped sobbing when I got to her. My eyes widen in shock as she slowly takes her hands from her face and turns to look at me while laughing menacingly.

She stops laughing. She smiles and then says, "It's our fault."

She charges at me, knocking me to the ground as I stumble. She is sitting on top of me, suffocating me with her hand around my throat. She looks down at me while struggling to breathe.

"It's our fault!"

I gasped for air and opened my eyes, my body drenched in sweat. I quickly sit up, and my chest continued to pound quickly. I glance around the room, skeptical and paranoid that the nightmare may have followed, but the room was completely silent, except for the alarm clock on my bedside table that was ticking.

I sighed to myself, escaping the nightmare from which I finally awoke from. It was three o'clock in the morning and I have to be at school in a few hours. As I lie back down, I stared at the ceiling, losing the melatonin in my body to want the need to sleep.

What the hell was that? I thought to myself for the next several hours until I eventually got out of bed to go to school, feeling fatigued from not getting a decent, sound night's sleep because of the fear of having a reoccurring nightmare of myself in a different light.