Hereditary Apparitions Kate Jarvis
In her dream, Julia Morton has escaped. She wakes too soon, feverish hot and snared tight in the tangled sheets of her sickbed. She wrenches up at a sharp angle, mucus in her throat, clogging and stopping and swallowing up her breath. She hacks at it, a drowning sensation overwhelming her, bringing instinctual, animal panic. Then Mother is there, patting her back, speaking in that insistent, matronly tone. The mucus dislodges, lands on her clean white sheets and stares up at her. A yellow stain. Julia can breathe, but there’s no relief. She slumps back, before Mother is folding her forward again, plumping her pillows, propping her up like a rag doll. Mother fusses around like a bluebottle, fetching clean water and damp cloths and a new sheet, and speaking to herself because they both know Julia is too exhausted to respond. Julia settles back against her pillows, guilty for her disappointment at not being dead yet. The excitement is soon over, giving way to the monotony of the patient’s chamber. Heavy curtains are drawn against the midday sun, too cheerful for any of the inmates to bear. Instead the room is lit by scattered lamps, casting a false, cold light and deepening the shadows in the far corner. It’s the shadows Julia blames for her paranoia, her hallucinations.
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