Lavender.

Anna wished there was a word to describe whatever it was that existed in the plain between dreams and nightmares. For as long as she could remember she’d suffered from them. Sometimes several years passed between each one. Sometimes they appeared several nights in a row. Inevitably, she would return to that dreadful cavern. Every crevice was familiar, and she had become as accustomed to the hollow trickling of water as she was to her own breathing. 

Like a murder of crows they huddled together, their black cloaks draped over the damp floor. The threads of their idle gossip tangled into a bundle of indiscernible chatter. When she was five, they had been the stuff of nightmares. By sixteen, angsty and naive, she had considered them close and personal friends. Now, at twenty-nine, she had learned to maintain a steady wariness of them. She had studied Shakespeare and the Greek myths, and had determined these three cackling crones to be the same three women that haunted all sorts of cultures and religions, around the world and across time. 

One was old and withered. Talon-like fingers protruded from her sleeves, and white hairs sprouted from the deep pits of her nostrils. Her irises had leached all their colour, and were paler than her eyeballs. She reminded her of those stout trees that grow by the sea, blasted horizontal by the wind. Globules of saliva caught in her dusty windpipe when she was amused, and the resulting hacking sound was grating. She was bitter with the envy of youth and the exhaustion of age.

One was young and beautiful. Plump lips carved into satirical smiles. Beneath her cloak, her hair tumbled in cascades to her lithe waist, and her eyes sparkled with flirtatious charm. She exuded the cruelty of a vain and arrogant youth. She snickered behind her manicured hand, casting sly glances at the others. Her tinkling laughter barely concealed a vicious mockery.

The third and final one had always reflected Anna’s own age, but even as a child, her sharp eyes simmered an unsettling wisdom. She laughed the loudest, and with the most genuine contempt.

They whispered prophecies to her, and took no heed of her pleas to stop, or to tell her more, or to answer her specific questions. 

In her early childhood, whenever she had woken kicking and screaming, and between heavy sobs had claimed that three women were whispering the secrets of the universe into her ear at night, she had been scoffed at and brushed aside. But after the dog actually got hit by a car, and her mother’s haircut had gone drastically wrong, and the neighbor's kid did break their collarbone, they began to pay a little more attention. 

The majority of the prophecies were small, trivial predictions. ‘Tomorrow it will rain from 11.23am to 3.49pm’, that sort of thing. But occasionally their voices would be hushed. They would giggle and cast meaningful glances her way as she approached, a tangible excitement in the air. These were the signs of an important forthcoming prophecy. Death, illness, love, or any other kind of life-changing event always caused them to act like this- the exact same way they were acting now.

“Here she comes!” One cackled with sadistic glee.

“No more wine for-”

“And more fishes in the seas-”

“And-”

“But it will be-”

“Painful!” 

“And long!”

“For her-”

“But so worth it, that beautiful face!”

“And the tiny digits-”

“And the screaming, and the late nights-”

“But all by herself-”

“But hers! All hers!”

“That beautiful baby boy!” They squealed in unison, turning to face her.

She stumbled back, her heart dropping.

They shuffled closer, circling like a pack of vultures. 

“I’m…?”

“Pregnant.” the old one spat.

“You’ll get fat.” the young one smirked.

“When?” she asked.

The one her own age (visually speaking) merely watched her.

Oh. Her hand hovered over her abdomen. 

“The only one she shall ever have-” 

“Just the one! Just the one!”

“Or she’ll be barren forever-”

“No more squealing little babies-”

“No more tiny little toes-”

“No more-”

Shrieks reverberated in her eardrums as she tried, desperately, to get a hold on the situation she found herself in. Pregnant, with no real partner. Not ideal- but it didn’t seem like she would have another chance. She knew well enough by now that they only ever spoke the truth. She had always wanted a son. She’d settled on his name when she was merely thirteen and had stuck to it. Kit. Christopher. Kitty. It was what her mother had planned to call her, had she been born a boy. 

Eleven years and nine months later, her steps echoed off the rock-hewn walls as droplets dashed themselves against the floor. Heavy fabric and feet shuffled beneath snickers and bursts of laughter.

She was happy. Since having her son the visions had lessened, becoming menial, infrequent affairs. She’d almost come to miss the lifelong companions to her dreams. Almost.

She’d been celebrating Kit’s birthday. He was growing into a pleasant young boy. He was kind of soul, and joyful of heart. His gappy teeth were always bared for the world to see. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had smile lines and crow's feet by 20. His hair was light, a reminder of his absent father, but he had stolen her dark eyes, and they shared the same straight brow bone. 

They had gorged on cake for dinner, as per his request. It had taken them an entire evening to bake it, and had both ended up covered in flour. Three layers, sandwiched with lashings of cream and jam so generous they dripped down the sides. Fresh strawberries and icing sugar decorated the lopsided top, complete with eleven candles. He’d blown them out in one go. She’d bought him his first big boy bike and they’d spent all day practising riding it down the hill. He’d gotten a fancy shirt from his grandparents. Shattered from all the excitement, they’d dozed off curled up on the sofa, his head in her lap as the credits of his favourite movie rolled.

She smiled to herself, and then refocused her attention towards the women. Once such a huge part of her life, they had faded into the shadow of her child. She parted her lips to greet them, but her tongue latched to the roof of her mouth. There was a buzz in the atmosphere.

“An untimely death-”

“So young. So very young-”

“Cold in the ground before his parents even reach 50-”

Her throat constricted.

“Poor child-”

“Poor mother-”

“She’ll never forgive herself-”

“Who?” Her tongue felt heavy.

They all laughed. 

“Who?” She screeched.

Malicious glances, followed by more laughter.

“Who? Who?” She tried to get nearer, ready to grab one by the cloak and shake until her bones rattled. The air grew thick and hazy, and the hags began to shrink away from her. She clawed at the air, attempting to grab handfuls of it and haul herself forwards. Their laughter echoed around her, and she screamed, crawling and squeezing through the ever-thickening air. 

“Who?” she cried, but she already knew. As she managed to pull herself closer to them, they all turned in synchrony and glared at her. The hatred, and sorrow, and glee combined in those ancient, powerful eyes struck her so hard that she lost her grip and tumbled away into a restless night of sleep.

Kit would never understand what had happened to his mother. From his hazy childhood memories, he remembered her as a fun, life-loving woman. She had been strong, and solid, and had raised him all by herself. But around the time he turned 11 something had changed. She had become strict, harsh, and cold. Her bones protruded from her flesh, and she had pulled so much of her hair out that scabbed, bald patches shone under bright lights. Wrinkles had cracked her face and her hands had developed a persistent tremor. 

Every morning and every evening, her frantic whispers would echo through their empty house, and he knew if he peeped around her door she would be kneeling on bruised knees at her small altar, which she had bedecked in anything and everything in threes. She could murmur fanatically for hours. He’d tried to listen in, but she spoke so fast he could barely make out the words. Besides, if he interrupted she would yell and shout, cursing him and wringing her hands red. She’d apologize incessantly to her collection of trios. It was best to leave her to it. 

Over the last 5 years she had gotten progressively worse. She walked him into his classroom every morning, and would stay at the door for a while, clinging to the frame until his teacher would have to ask her to leave. She always arrived early too, and they would go directly home. The car had been gotten rid of over a year ago, and he wasn’t allowed to take public transport. They walked everywhere, his mum clutching him with both her hands. 

When at home, the front door remained almost permanently locked. Every sharp corner in the house had been covered in foam or sanded down. She rarely turned the electricity on anymore, and when they cooked, only she was allowed to be in the kitchen with the stove. The one sharp knife he was aware they owned was locked away in a cabinet, and she kept the key on her person. He wasn’t even allowed to run or jump, not since a nasty fall when he was 13 which fractured his arm. 

That day, his mum waited at the classroom door for an hour and a half. He heard a group of boys sniggering behind him, and his cheeks blushed in shame. They left, her tiny hand squeezing his as she chewed her shredded lips and looked over her shoulder jerkily. His friends murmured to each other, watching him leave with his neurotic mother, missing another after-school football game or bowling trip. 

Their garden is a graveyard of dead plants and overgrown weeds. His mum guided him through the door, hurriedly locking it behind her and sighing deeply. 

His foot had just touched the first step when she said, “I’m taking you out of school.”

He paused. “What?” 

“You’re not going to school anymore.” 

His ears began to ring, muffling her voice. “What?”

She slammed her hand against the wall. “You. Are not. Going. To school. Anymore!”

“Mum! What the fu-”

“Shush! It’s not safe.”

“It’s school!”

She pressed her lips together, suppressing a small wobble. He recognised the signs of her manipulative breakdowns. His rib cage was constricting his heart. 

“It’s not safe enough. Who knows what could happen to you when I’m not there. I have to be able to keep an eye on you-”

“But why-”

“I need to keep you safe!”

“From what?”

The typical tears began to drip down her hollow cheeks. 

“From what, mum? You control everything! Look around! Look at this house, at our life! It’s insane! You’re insane!”

She sniffed. “You are not going back to school.” was all she said.

“Oh my god. I can’t live like this anymore.” He murmured. His eyes were blank with resignation. He sped up the stairs, unable to bear another second with this skeletal prison guard.

“WALK, CHRISTOPHER!”

He stopped short. A single, hot tear slid down his face. He crept to his room, closing the door with a quiet click. 

That evening, after praying at her altar, she lay down on the sofa, wrapping her cardigan around her frail body. She was perpetually cold now. She rubbed her legs together, her knees aching. What a treacherous child, she thought. What a selfish beast. Can he not see? Doesn’t he see that everything I do is for his sake? He’s my everything, and I’m his. Her brow began to ache as she frowned, the bitter tang of blood bursting on her tongue as she bit through her lip. What an ungrateful bastard. She shook her head in anger. Teenagers. She had been warned of how difficult they were, but this was next level. Very well. He can stay in his room for the night and think about what he’s said. He can apologise in the morning, and then everything will be right again. She switched on the tv, flicking to a half watched episode. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt strong, or vaguely energetic. Was she that old already? Pondering her aches and pains, and her worries and woes, she dozed. The tv illuminated the ever present lines that stress had ironed into her face. It was in this state, still half aware of the garbled dialogue from the speakers, that she heard the cackling start in the back of her mind. She twisted and turned, groaning, “No, leave me alone.” 

The laughter grew raucous as her son's voice joined them, the last sentence he’d uttered burning her ears. “I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t live like this anymore!” 

She awoke with a nauseating clarity seeping through her body. Lurching up from the sofa, she stumbled to the door like a drunk. Leaning heavily on the banister, she pulled herself up the stairs. 

“Kit?” The silence smothered her like a heavy blanket. Her socks scuffed over the carpet. “Kitty?” she choked, her voice thin and reedy. 

She stared, eyes so wide they hurt, at his doorknob. It seemed to be mocking her as it winked in the rising moonlight. 

“Kit?” she whispered in a trembling voice as she twisted it. The door swung open. 

His sheets were illuminated a ghostly shade of white by that laughing moon. She could still smell the traces of the laundry detergent she had used on them yesterday. He liked the lavender one. He had twisted them into a rope.

Her hands shook so violently she scratched her lips in her attempt to cover her cavernous mouth. Tears fell directly from her eye sockets as she found herself incapable of averting her gaze from her son. She couldn’t even blink. A low keening started in the back of her throat, followed by a guttural howl as she fell to her knees, his pale, bare feet still swaying slightly in front of her face.