A World Apart

Righting the Wrong

Dusk was rolling in as I parked my car. It felt strange being back here. Like I was trespassing on the grounds of somewhere I didn't belong.

This has to be done. I told myself, pulling the keys from the ignition and climbing out of the car.

I smoothed the creases from my smart, black pencil dress, tucking my sunglasses into my handbag and checking my reflection in my compact. Thankfully my make-up had hidden the redness and puffiness surrounding my eyes. The concealer, eyeshadow and mascara doing a good job in covering the after-effects from my three days solid of crying, leaving me looking like my stylish and composed self. I took a deep breath, reminding myself of my own strength, and reasons for doing this, then stepped forward, crossing to the other side of the road and approaching my destination. Wrapping my knuckles against the door, I waited for a moment, hearing the sound of approaching footsteps from inside, before it swung open.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Hardy?" I asked, taking in the puzzled expression on Jake's mother's face, and almost gasping as I saw her eyes... Jake's eyes.

"Yes, that's me. How can I help you?"

"My name's Charisma Isles," I continued, clearing my throat, "I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you about your son?"

She paled right before my eyes, her hand gripping hold of the door as if to stop her from falling over.

"J-Jake?" She gasped, clutching her chest with her free hand.

I nodded curtly.

"Please, come in," She squeaked, ushering me inside, closing the door and scurrying alongside me.

"Who is it, Jen?" Called a man I assumed to be Jake's father, from the room up ahead on the left.

She led me into the room where the voice had come from, entering just ahead and speaking in a breathy tone:

"Harold, there's someone here to see us... about Jake."

The moment I stepped inside, I saw Jake's father getting to his feet, reaching for his wife and drawing her into his embrace, lingering by the armchair he'd just vacated, and letting his eyes fall on me. He gestured for me to sit, and so I dropped into a chair opposite. Neither of them moved, their bodies tensing more and more by the second before Mr Hardy finally spoke:

"Is he? Is he dead?" He croaked, Mrs Hardy's resolve breaking as she let out a strangled sob, her face pressing into her husband's shoulder.

I was caught off guard by the sheer emotion that they were displaying. After everything that they'd done to their son, here they were, doing a damn good job of impersonating parents who actually cared about him. I mentally debated whether it was genuine, or whether it was a well-perfected act. At least until his mother's head rose and her eyes locked with mine, the light twinkle that was there a moment ago when she'd answered the door, now gone, replaced with the same dark and haunted look that I'd seen in her son's the night that we'd met, and instantly, I knew. That look couldn't be faked. It was the look of someone who was still traumatised by loss and guilt.

"No, he's alive," I replied, softening a little at their delicate state.

I watched as the tension drained out of their body, taking them down with it as they both collapsed into the same chair, perched on the edge, hands intertwined, tears slowly falling from Mrs Hardy's eyes whilst her husband rubbed at his forehead.

"You have no idea how long we've waited to hear that," He said quietly, finally looking back up at me. "All these years, we've prepared for the worst, lived in fear of it, and yet still we waited each day in hope of hearing a knock on the door, with news that could finally end our pain of not knowing."