The lost soul

It was a cold winter day in New York. The soft pitter-patter of the rain dripping on the window and the tinkling of the wind chimes were the only sounds you could hear that December afternoon. It was another of those dull, overcast days which transmitted you that feeling of dispirit. It was too cold. Too wet. Too miserable. Those were the thoughts running through Annette’s head.

The old woman smiled woefully, as she listened to the creaking of her wooden rocking chair, watching through the window glass how the rain drops sprinkled onto the black top road. Suddenly it occurred to her that nearby, a garage sale of antiques was scheduled for that afternoon. Despise how much she hated rain and cold weather, Annette decided to go to the garage sale to have a look.

She dressed up, putting on her favourite wool jumper, gumboots and raincoat. She wrapped up a scarf around her neck, grabbed an umbrella and stepped onto the driveway, closing the front door of her house behind her. Annette began to walk towards the neighborhood where the garage sale was going to take place. The damp smell of rain-soaked ground filled her lungs, as she took small breaths of air. The street was lifeless; not a single soul could be spotted. The distant whiz of rushing cars and the constant honking and vroom of engines diminished as she sauntered by.   

Soon, she reached the house where the garage sale was being organized, and approached the entrance. Some people were already glancing and scanning the objects scattered around the garage. Annette was very passionate about antiques and showed a great interest towards them. A warm feeling of contentment and joy filled her at the sight of so many unique objects. At the back of the room, she spotted a pot that caught her attention. The clean shape, lines and smooth surface resulted attractive to her. That pot somehow seemed familiar to her in an emotional way. She thought it would look nice on her bookshelves and decided to buy it. 

–Excuse me young man, how much is this pot? asked Annette politely.

–Five dollars, replied the friendly man behind the table used as a counter, and smiled at the old lady.

–Fine, I’ll take it, she indicated, reaching into her bag to get the money.

Pleased with her purchase, she headed back home, slightly better-humoured. On her way back, the rain was still pouring heavily, creating streams of water that rushed down the street, finding their way to the sewers. Annette’s thoughts drifted away, and she began to ruminate on her husband, Alfred. She missed him. Suddenly, memories of her youth invaded her thoughts. Moments later, her mind came back to reality, and Annette found herself before her front door. Using her free hand, she opened it and entered the house. Once she was inside she placed the pot next to a dictionary, on one of her bookshelves. For a few instants she glared at the pot she had just bought. She couldn’t stop getting that feeling of familiarity when she looked at it. It was as if she had already seen it before. Curious, she lifted the pot’s lid and looked inside. To her surprise, there was a small amount of sand inside it. However, she soon realized that what the pot contained was not sand, but the ashes of someone. What she had bought at the garage sale was not a pot, but an urn. Horrified and shocked at the same time she quickly covered the urn with its lid. She stood there still, not capable of moving, not knowing how to react. Yet, an abrupt and profound curiosity invaded her, and filled her with intrigue. She opened the urn, and slowly introduced her hand in it, reaching the bottom of the recipient. As her fingers made contact with the ashes inside, a sudden shiver ran the length of her whole body. Shaking and trembling Annette suddenly experienced a flashback.

She saw herself, young and full of life, crossing a street, holding Alfred’s hand. She was smiling and glanced at her husband who was looking straight ahead. Out of nowhere came a loud noise; the honk of a car, followed by the impact of the hard steel smashing her body, breaking her bones and propelling her 10 feet high into the air. Her sight was blurred, she could feel nothing but pain, and then, she felt the impact of her landing against the road, face first. 

Annette opened her eyes to find herself back in the present; in reality. She was lying on the floor, breathing heavily. She felt sick and dizzy. Disoriented, confused. She had just had a flashback of the day her husband died, crossing that street, only in her flashback she died too. It didn’t make any sense, it was illogical and incoherent. She didn’t understand why she had had that flashback when she touched those ashes, and most importantly she didn’t understand what she had seen. Pulling herself back together, she carefully stood up and sat on the sofa next to her. She tried to forget about everything that had just happened, but this resulted impossible. Not knowing what else to do, she finally decided to call her daughter and tell her about what had just happened.

–Mum, is it you?

–Susie? Yes, yes it’s me, said Annette nervously.

–Is something wrong? You sound tense.

Annette quickly told her daughter what had just happened, and when she finished, waited for an answer.

Susie disconcerted, hesitated: –Mum, I think you’re just going nuts. You have too much imagination. Really, don’t worry about it.

Not satisfied with the answer, Annette murmured something and then said goodbye to her daughter, thanking her for everything. The next day, Annette woke up early in the morning, got dressed and went back to the house where she had bought the urn to return it to its owner. When she got there, she knocked on the front door. The friendly man who had sold her the urn opened the door. Annette explained the situation, but the man refused to take back the urn, not caring about what she had to say. She insisted that the man take back the urn, but the man told her to go away and shut the door close. Confused, Annette turned around and headed back home.

Days passed, and she couldn’t get the urn off of her mind. Every time she passed in front of it she would get a chill and shivered. Not knowing who those ashes were of and having them there in her house didn’t feel right, especially after what had happened when she touched them. Annette resolved that the best thing to do was probably to find out who those ashes belonged to, and have them delivered to a relative. She tried to contact several people who might be able to help her, but she failed to find anyone willing to do so. More days and weeks passed, and every day she felt more and more uncomfortable near the ashes. She had these strange feelings and from time to time had more flashbacks like the one she had experienced when she touched the ashes. Annette was worried about what the flashbacks could mean and the possible relation the ashes had with herself. Desperate, she called her daughter again, who began to worry about her mental health and considered taking Annette to a psychologist. Annette, upset about how her daughter thought she was going crazy, was determined to find more about those ashes. She kept making calls and sending e-mails, and finally managed to get in contact with a member of a forensic laboratory, who agreed to analyze the ashes. Annette was told that the forensics would look for any remnants of bone in the ashes and analyze them for DNA. In a few weeks she would receive a letter with the results or findings.

That morning when she woke up, she felt more tired than usual. She felt as if she had aged years overnight. However, as usual she got up and made her bed. Afterwards, she went downstairs and looked through her mail. There it was, the letter sent from the forensic industry. Anxiously, she opened it, eager to find the results. She scanned through the letter in search of a name. Then, Annette was paralyzed. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and gasped in incredulousness. The ashes had been found to belong to ‘Annette Douglas Smith’. Her name was written on the letter. The ashes were hers.

Nuria Cuesta de Andrés (1º Bachillerato)