The Last Mate on Earth

Part 1 - Chapter 17

* * * Hope’s POV * * *

It is as though somebody has pressed a pause button in the dome. A dark cloud has descended upon us, and it is refusing to clear. It feels wrong - illegal even to smile, laugh, eat, or to even hold a single meaningless conversation that might lighten our hearts and encourage normality. Parent Hannah’s murder has given us all an enormous reality check regarding what is at stake. But it has also hit me with a grief that I have never experienced before. Not only have I never witnessed the horror of another being dying before my eyes, but I’d never had anyone so close to me taken like that. Even though I have experienced the loss of other parents, they were elderly and old age took them. But none of them was as important to me as parent Hannah. The bond I had shared with her was special.

My birth mother had died during childbirth, and my biological father had been unable to process his grief, causing a mental breakdown. They told me that he was sectioned to a facility for the mentally unstable after he had lost the plot following my mother’s death. I did not and do not feel the same emotional turmoil over their absences as I do parent Hannah’s. Maybe it is because it is fresher and raw, or perhaps because it is real and not something I’ve been told about, as though it is part of a history lesson.

I recall with clarity the day that parent Rita had told me of my own parents and what happened to them. I had been very young and had been asking with of the parents’ were my ‘real’ mother, so the facility had felt the topic needed to be addressed.

My birth had put too much of a physical strain on my birth mother’s body, which shouldn’t have surprised anybody, given that she was older than most childbearing women from decades before. Parent Rita had told me how hard they had fought to save her. She was the first woman in decades to bear a female, so it stands to reason that they would want to keep her alive and try again, but sadly she had slipped away. I was told that it was peaceful and that they had placed me in her arms at the time. That had always comforted me, even if I have no recollection of it.

The situation with my biological father is a little different. I don’t really remember him either, but I know that he tried to abduct me when I was four years old, which had led to him being cut off permanently. I’m regularly reminded of this incident because of the moon-shaped scar he caused on my wrist - it is a little rough patch that I always find myself rubbing. I think it is out of habit. I don’t actually remember much about the episode, other than a door creaking open in the dark, a hand grabbing mine and pulling me from my bed. There had been lots of shouting and confusion, a scuffle, and then his tormented face at the sight of my bloodied arm as they dragged him away. I don’t know how much of it is accurate or whether I dreamt up some of the events. Dreams distort, stretch and obscure the line between what is real and what is not. All I can be certain of is that I dream of my father most nights.

Parent Rita had briefed me on him, too, mostly about what happened when I was last in his company. She has told me about my ancestry. She said they were keen for my father to be a key figure in my life growing up, but it was too tough for him to be around me. She told me that he blamed me for the loss of his mate. Which is hardly surprising; she died giving birth to me. They were said to have been very happy before she had become pregnant with me. That changed everything, apparently.

I have been sleeping with my birth mother’s book under my pillow for the last few nights, but I can’t find the courage to open it. I don’t want her loving words tarnished by my fresh heartache.

She is often with my father in my dreams, although I have only ever seen her in the pictures they have given me and in videos of her in interviews throughout her pregnancy. Her happiness shines through as she lovingly rubs and cradles her growing bump. None of the videos are long enough to give me a real sense of what is being discussed, but I have watched them a lot. I have studied them, just like I have studied the videos of the potentials.

I look nothing like my father; I am my mother reincarnated. Perhaps that is why he found it so difficult to be around me.

Parent Hannah had filled the void in my heart that my biological parents had left behind. The thought of not being able to see her ever again, of her not being the first person I see every morning, of never being able to say a proper goodbye or thank her for everything she has done for me, including giving her own life, is crushing.

Despite my early numbness, I have cried relentlessly since parent Rita left my room, allowing me to wallow in parent Hannah’s death. My soul feels as black and heavy as the clothes they have allowed me to wear, as bleak and miserable as the storm clouds above the dome.

I am in mourning.

I have stayed in my bedroom, not caring to venture out. I have just sat here, consumed with guilt and sorrow.

Every time there has been a knock at my door, I have momentarily forgotten the terror and expected to see parent Hannah walking in, but now the time has come to end that ridiculous hope and lay her to rest. Parent Rita has done as she promised and is allowing us to say goodbye in a way we feel shows gratitude, respect and love for parent Hannah.

Minutes before the proceedings start, I find myself walking to the pool to admire the view of the sea. I need a moment or two of quiet reflection before I have to say goodbye. My eyes are fixed on the clouds, wondering if the gods and goddesses are also in mourning. I sense Hayden’s presence move along the walkway behind me as he lowers himself to sit beside me.

He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t try to force conversation or coax out how I am feeling so that they can psychoanalyse my mental state. He just sits and allows me to be.

It’s him.

Hayden.

He is the one.

What?

I send a mental thank you to the facility for sending my friend on what feels like the hardest day of my life so far. I can’t look at him, but just having him here is enough.

The silence is comforting. It’s what I need. I close my eyes and breathe in his scent. It soothes my soul and eases my aching heart.

“Come on,” I croak, my voice breaking, a gentle reminder that I have barely spoken over the last few days. “We had better go. They will be waiting,” I say as I get to my feet and jump from the castle wall. I take a slow and shaky breath to stop my tears from falling as I breathe out and look to the heavens above me, wondering if parent Hannah is looking down on me.

“I’m here,” Hayden says, so quietly it’s as though I have imagined it.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod. I appreciate his gesture.

With my next breath out, I manage to place one foot in front of the other and lead us back through the upper garden zone, just as the rest of the parents start to gather. Like Hayden and me, they all wear black and look sombre, yet somehow they smile, and we exchange hugs. We are united in our loss and grief.

We’re not waiting long before parent Connie steps forward. Her greying hair has been pinned into her usual low bun, but the air of superiority seems to have left her. Today she is mourning like the rest of us.

As usual, she cradles a grey ceramic pot after a parents' death. There is no body; instead, the pot holds a few of parent Hannah's favourite possessions. Small items that brought her joy while she was here. It is usually photos or jewellery, little tickets and keepsakes from a former life sealed into an urn, symbolising the woman she was.

“A few days ago, a terrible and unjust thing happened in the worst way imaginable”, parent Connie says, taking charge while protectively pulling the pot closer to her chest. “While we may feel that we do not want to move forward, we have the remember that life is ever-evolving, ever-changing. Hannah experienced love and kindness in her previous life, which enabled her to spread her love and goodness here. We were fortunate to have her walk among us and must take note of all of her attributes ….”

While parent Connie talks, I think of our friend and long to be set free from the grief, but I miss her too much.

I shuffle on the spot, shrugging my shoulders and trying to ease the weight bearing down on them. “ … I’m going to pass this around,” parent Connie says, her dark eyes looking down at the container in her hands and raising it a few inches. “I’m sure most of you will echo my own anguish at never having had a chance to say a proper goodbye to our Hannah. I know that’s how Hope feels,” she says, looking at me with a sad smile.

She has been to see me regularly over the last few days. She might be the strictest of the parents and easily influenced by parent Rita, but she has listened to me and tried to coax me out of the darkness.

“So as you find this in your hands,” she continues, “Think of how she made you feel. Thank her. Will the love she radiated to shine through us all always.” With that, she closes her eyes with a frown, as though she is struggling to contain her own emotions while communicating with some higher being. I’m still watching her as the faint lines around her eyes soften and smooth. A peaceful expression takes over her dark olive skin as she grins, white teeth flashing.

She opens her eyes, passes the container to parent Kimberely and then across the group. I watch as the same acceptance and tranquillity befalls them.

When it is my turn, I almost feel scared to touch the container, just in case I’m unable to absorb the comfort it has given them.

But I take it from parent Tracey and pull it into my breast; my arms wrap around it. I can’t remember the last hung parent Hannah, and I shared, and the thought saddens me. Was it on the morning of her death? I’m not sure. We spoke of love and her past … I wish I’d hugged her more like I did when I was younger. I wish I’d been more grateful. I wish I’d shown her more often how much she meant to me.

The thoughts of her looking after me fill my heart with gratitude and joy. Not sadness. I was loved, as was she.

A smile of acceptance stretches my lips.

A thank you.

A goodbye.

I open my eyes and turn to hand the container to the person next to me, but when I open my eyes, Hayden is looking at the container regretfully, his brows knitted.

He takes the container and holds it against his brow, his lips moving as he speaks silently, delivering his last words to parent Hannah. With a slow smile, he lowers the container and hands it back to parent Connie.

“Thank you for coming with me; parent Hannah would be glad,” I tell him, uttering the words like they’re some sort of comfort while cringing at myself.

He shrugs and nods at the floor in a movement that is unlike him.

Once parent Connie has the pot back in her arms, she starts singing a lullaby that parent Hannah used to croon to me when I was younger. Everyone joins in, even Hayden. I asked for this song to be included. It talks of a bird with a broken wing being set free. That is how I want to think of her today, learning to fly. It gives me hope and fills me with love. Hayden’s voice is like rich honey; I don’t think I have ever heard him sing before. Why does he know this song? Did the parents sing it to the boys too?

Hayden Philip.

I needed to ask him.

“Thank you, everyone,” parent Connie says, at the end, indicating with a wave of her hand that we can disperse.

Where has she gone?” I ask before anyone has had a chance to move.

“To her husband,” parent Kimberely replies.

“I thought he was ….”

“No,” Parent Kimberley blushes, “He will be happy to have her back ….”

I am happy that parent Hannah is back where her heart belongs. But, not for the first time, I am seeing holes in the information I’ve been given. The lies. I’m sure someone thinks it is for my own good. To shield me from a world I know nothing of, but suddenly I am feeling like an actor in a play; I know my own lines, but everyone else knows theirs, mine and has read the entire play. I want to get my hands on the entire script and find out what else is being hidden from me. I want to know more about the world my children will be born into and the life we shall lead if I succeed in helping the rebirth of the werewolves. I want to know the truth.

Sometimes they do not realise when they have slipped up, but why would parent Hannah say her husband had died? Was the truth worse?

When everyone slips away to their chores, I wander back to the pool to stare at the ocean. My mind is still full of questions.

“What did you think of parent Hannah?” I ask Hayden when I sense that he has followed me and is standing behind me.

“She was one of the nice ones,” he sighs.

“She was the closest thing I had to an actual mother,” I tell him, looking across to gauge her reaction.

“I understand,” he nods, his lips pursed.

“Do you?” I ask, looking from his mouth to his eyes. I stare into them as hard as I can, willing them to tell me the truth.

“What are your parents like? Tell me about them.”

“My mother was a school teacher, and my dad was a scientist,” he says, his voice monotonous at repeating the same story. “Whey were quite surprised when they ….”

“Hayden, stop it. I don’t want that answer,” I snap, frustrated at the continued lie. “That’s not what I asked. What are your parents like? Who are they?”

His head snaps around to mine, and he answers without skipping a beat. “I had to leave my mother when I was very little. It broke my heart and hers. I was hers and not his. My father is .. he is very controlling. Our relationship is difficult. He is a scientist, and I was his experiment,” the hurt on his face tells me that he is telling the truth, not sticking to the rules or script he’s been fed.

“I wish I had that.”

“Really? One argument with my dad being his real self and you’d change your mind,” he scoffs and laughs a little.

“Maybe. Or maybe not. You share the same blood; you were made from him, created by him … That must mean something.”

He looks crestfallen and as if he is about to say something else, but as we sit on the castle wall facing the ocean, he changes his mind.

“Sometimes it is better to find our own love that means something,” he tells me with a strange look in his eyes.

The sound of music filters through a speaker on the doorway, telling us it is dinnertime. “Already?” I grumble; it can’t be that late already. I am annoyed that I can't sit here longer with him.

Hayden gives a little laugh, and I realise that the joke is on me. Yet again. It’s dinnertime because they want this conversation to end. Of course, they’re listening.

“Want to come for dinner?” I ask sarcastically, glancing up at him as I bring my shoulders up in an inviting manner.

For all the years Hayden has been my best friend, I have never felt that there is a distance between us until now.

“I have to get back to my room to ….”

“Yes.”

“Off you go for your lunch. Goodbye,” he tells me sadly.

“For now,” I smile, making no effort to leave the spot in which I am standing.

“What happens if I don’t go? I’m not hungry anyway,” I say.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells me.

“Thank you for being there with me today,” I tell him as I turn towards the walkway.

“Of course.” He gives me a sad smile.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Actually, I could have ….”

“Thanks.” He laughs.

“... But I am glad that I didn’t have to,” I laugh too.

“See you soon, Hope.” He tells me.

“See you soon, Hayden Philip,” I said, enjoying the shock on his face as I turned and left. As I walk away, a heat crosses my cheeks, and I am blushing. My heart rate has increased, and I long to return to him. I want to ask him more about his father. It makes sense now; his father is director Philip. I shuffle across the walkway, deep in thought as I head for dinner, all the while trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in my tummy.