I loved the way she said "balloon." She said it as if she were blowing bubbles. Full of wide-eyed excitement, like a little girl in the park. You'd half expect her to start chasing rainbow-colored bubbles and let them gently settle in the palm of her small childish hands.
I would give anything to go back to that day and buy her a whole bunch of those helium balloons and watch her soar over the trees in park, out of the town and out of the valley. She was so small and delicate, I'm sure she could have flown away before the fog swept in. But I had work to do and would not stop for something as silly as a balloon and she understood, as she always did. I was smarter and older and she had come to depend on me. Even for the most trivial matters, like choosing what scarf to buy - the blue or the green one. I remember saying the green one, to match with her beautiful eyes and her face lit up like I had told her the secret of life and she kissed me, a sweet innocent kiss on the cheek.
I wish I could remember what she wore that day in the park, it was a bit cool so she might have had a scarf artfully tied around her neck, but there were many things on my mind and I did not notice. I can feel you shaking your head, but it is not true, I loved her with all my heart - only I had no way of knowing it would matter. There was plenty of time to look at her, later on. I would have looked at her in the evening, on the porch, where we liked to sit and drink wine after dinner. But the green fog came that night, so heavy that stepping outside felt like diving into a pool.
The house on the corner had always been the subject of gossip. I was the only one who knew the truth. It was the summer that I'd turned twelve when I did it. Just to prove myself I had the guts. Of course, I did not tell anyone. My parents would have grounded me for the rest of the holiday had they known.
People said old Mr. Gregory had killed his wife, beautiful Laura, who had vanished into thin air barely three months after their wedding. Although the police had searched the house inch by inch and questioned Mr. Gregory for weeks trying to wrestle the truth out of him, they could not find anything to charge him with. Still, everybody thought he was guilty and no one ever spoke to him again. That had happened decades before I was even born and over time the legend of the evil old man grew ever more twisted with all the strange things people reported seeing. They said he brought prostitutes to the house, young women no one ever saw leaving the house, if you know what I mean. He'd kill stray dogs that would venture into his yard, overgrown with tall grass and wild flowers. On purpose, to keep prying eyes from looking through the windows.
I did not happen to go into the yard. I went in purposefully, making as much noise as possible, pretending to look for an imaginary ball. Ready to bolt if Mr. Gregory came out with a gun, for he was rumored to have one which he used to shoot birds.
The old man came out with a glass of lemonade in his hand and asked me if I cared to have one, too. And, I did. I followed him into the dark, but surprisingly tidy house, sat with him on the battered sofa and drank lemonade made with honey and mint leaves. I would lie to say that I discovered him to be a sweet lonely old man. He was weird, his long white beard made him look like a sorcerer and I could not see any kindness in his shifty eyes, that kept darting from me to the window as he if he was afraid someone might come looking for me. And he kept eyeing a wooden mantelpiece over a fake fireplace. There were large glass jars on the mantelpiece, but I could not see what was inside them, if anything, for the glass was a dark green, not like the transparent ones my mother kept pickled eggs in.
Honestly, I kind of gulped down my lemonade, for the house made me uneasy and I wanted to get out. As I got up to leave, he told me a most weird thing, which only strengthened my conviction that the old guy was crazy. But harmless. I had escaped unharmed from the house of horrors.
The night the fog came I finally understood what the old man had told me all those years back.
We lit a fire in the living room and sat there drinking white wine. Beatrice sat on the floor, resting her head on my lap and I played with her long heavy curls while I read her a poem I had written for her. Back then, I fancied myself a poet and she was my muse. She laughed when I called her that, but I knew that made her proud. She truly believed in me and spent all of her time trying to help me any way she could, catering to all my whims, even the unspoken ones.
As I sat down at my desk that night, she kissed me on the cheek and said she'll run down to the store to buy some apple pie. She really wanted some, she said, but I knew she was doing it for me and I humored her. I did not raise my eyes from the notebook as she left, so there's really no last image of her in my memory.
It was almost midnight when I realized she'd been gone for too long. When I opened the door a wave of green wet fog swept in. I knew I'd be drenched if I went out in my shirt, so I looked for the only umbrella we had, an old crooked one, which we hardly used as it so rarely rained there. It was then I remember what the old man had told me. 'Always have an umbrella handy. Take it from an old man'.
Beatrice had gone out without one and she never came back. Vanished into thin air. Or fog, if you like.
The crooked umbrella is still there somewhere, but I have no need for it now. I've tried many times, but the fog won't take me to her. I know she's still out there in every wisp of fog that dances in front of my eyes, driving me crazy. I only managed to get back tiny bits of her, trapped in the jars I put out on the porch to be filled with tendrils of green fog.
Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.