Before reading, be sure to start at the first chapter of The Emerald Archivist: Chapter 0- The Fool
The cardboard behemoth stared down Ari, towering from the kitchen counter. It’d weighed far heavier than she’d expected. In her hands, in her heart. The package soggy, sticky, painted in the broken spills of wine. Ari had mustered one glance beyond the torn flaps on the porch before recoiling. Her mother’s pendant had caught the light with a blinding flash. She still wasn’t ready.
Ari paced, shifting from foot to foot. She knew she should eat, and instead of sustenance went for yet another bottle of wine. Twisted steel punctured cork, and Ari grit her teeth. It felt good to focus on anything but the box. The spiral screwed deeper. She pulled. Suction fought against her strength until the bottle relented, whimpering with a satisfying pop. She sipped its neck. Sipped like a poet. Gone with poise, unwilling to break another glass. Ari hated them anyways, far too often snapping the frail goblets in the sink as she did her dishes.
Alcohol began to soften the edges as the spirit whispered. She wiped the red from her lips, placed her palms on the tiles, let her thick black hair curtain over her face, and attempted to wait out the inevitable.
The light in the kitchen shifted, and Ari looked up through a crack in the curtains. Brilliant white beams poured through broken clouds. The rains had stopped. The moon, she’d risen, clearing the heavy October skies. Ari went to the window to wash in her light. She stared, and wondered if the old girl was waxing or waning, if she’d reveal her full face in time for Halloween.
Lost in Luna’s astral smile, Ari begged the light for a warmth that wouldn’t come. Called away from the window, back by the bottle, she slugged the scarlet elixir, and dared a look back to the unwanted guest.
What’s in the box?
The old Se7en quote surfaced and nagged, echoing from the torturous, yet brilliant film her brother had made her watch far too young as a child. The phrase rippled again, as she took another pull. Courage had permeated through her bloodstream and hurtled Ari back above the lid.
Desperation and morbid curiosity curled her claws, aiding as she unearthed her mother’s belongings. On top of piles of documents was that old, cherished emerald necklace. Sitting there, amongst all the other treasures, abandoned just as she had been. Wrapped in golden ribbons, the Eye of Horus hung over the captivating colour. Held high, the golden chain twinkled under the moonlight. Ari remembered the jewelry well. It was in all of the few photos she had of her. She questioned how her mother could ever leave it. Fury boiled from hurt. Oh but another beautiful trinket her mother hadn’t found worthy enough to take with her.
Despite a returning resistance, Ari went back to the darkness of the package and reached again. She excavated diaries, and what felt like hundreds of letters, their envelopes torn, the stamps aged, peeling, faded ink bled, and splotchy. A weighty shoe box sat below, bedazzled, and stickered, filled with old photographs, and cassettes. Ari couldn’t bring herself to retrieve anything else. Half raised items breaching the light, fell from her hands, released back to the darkness. She sobbed, and drowned in more merlot.
This isn’t what she needed. This wasn’t the rest or reprieve she wanted. Reminders of the lack of love, a lack of nurture, of absence. Yet curiosity got the better of her. She grabbed a diary, flipped through the pages and looked over her mother’s scribbles. Her analytical eyes danced over the penmanship. The striking crosses of her t’s, outlandish distances between the dots above her i’s. The dates sprang, impossible to miss, and Ari’s furious heart beat faster. They were entries made well after she was born, years after she’d left. Despite the strength behind her brewing emotions Ari dared not to read the pages, not yet. What answers could come from a woman she could never speak to?
Oh how she loathed the box. How she hated that it had found its way to her. What was there to inherit aside from the old junk of a dead mother she’d never known? What good could come from chronicles she never wanted, from words that were never hers to hear? Ari’s eyes welled and she wept.
Between embarrassed sobs she cried angry tears. Over hurts that should’ve healed decades before. Seething with irate guilt for being bothered by a glorified stranger. Ari felt like she was betraying her saintly Aunt Mary, who’d taken her and her brother in, and raised them amongst their cousins, been more of a parent than anyone could ask for. No matter how much love sweet Mary poured into poor Ari, the wound never healed. She shook. Furious how her mother still resonated, that she still longed for more, for that universal connection. Robbed, jilted, and exhausted. The lack of sleep, and stress from the stalking birds mounted as emotions overwhelmed.
Yet, from the windowsill, the light poured on. She wiped her tears, swigged, and moved to put something in her stomach. Leftover hummus, vegetables, yogurt, Ari grabbed what she could. The alcohol was taking its effect. The spirits were getting to her head. She looked to her phone for someone to vent to, but struggled to find an ear or shoulder she felt comfortable to call. Her friendships had gone unwatered, and Ari was reluctant to reach out for care when she’d been unable to reciprocate for so long. Her heaviness couldn’t stop her thumb from scrolling through her contacts again and again as if she’d missed someone. The thought of bringing others up to speed regarding her birth mother, when she’d been so private about her family life was as daunting as the contents behind her. The cell went down. It was a history Ari put distance to the moment she’d fled to college. Few, even those she’d grown up with, knew she wasn’t Mary’ daughter.
She considered contacting an old therapist, but even their relationship had fallen short under the workload of the last year. It was hopeless. Mary, Uncle Jer, gone too soon, her beloved cousins scattered across timezones. Her brother was no source of comfort. As frustrated as she was that he’d shouldered the contents off to her, she knew it was because he was handling everything worse than she was.
While most of her life she’d been envious of the extra time he’d had with their mother, including the two years with their father maturity cautioned. She knew having a single memory of the man, or their mother would only widen her chasm of hurt. Still, to have a moment, to have had more than a handful of faded photographs, to have known they’d loved her, had wanted her, at least a little bit would have meant the world.
All she had was that burdensome box. There were no gains to come from the painful mirror. No amount of understanding could stop her from feeling disrespected or lonely. Ari wished she had a cat or dog or child of her own. For a partner. For any arms around her. To be held.
The clock struck. It was late. A worthy dent in a task to tackle in following days. The lights switched off, and in the dark the kitchen, illuminated by moonbeams, sat the silhouette of a crow watching from the windowsill.
Thanks for Reading
Continue onwards with the inevitable next chapter, coming soon!
-Mr. Write