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my short story start

In my mother’s home, there was a painting. A lovely painting, if somewhat amateur. And on the canvas displayed a unicorn, with pale, shining ivory skin that seemed to glow against the mossy greens and shadowed trees in the background. It had lacy chin hair like a goat, but a curly and long mane much like a horse.

As a child, I remember playing with my train sets and old toy cars under that painting. I remember the late summer breeze that would flow into the house and the creaking wooden halls that would shutter under my every move. That painting was something magical to me, something to be stared at and admired, but never questioned, or even acknowledged when talking to my mother.

It was as if, if I said a word about it, it would disappear. Cease to exist, and remain like a ghost in the echoes of my memory forevermore.

My mother died when I was four years old. And I was taken to live with my grandmother, a cruel woman who lived in Philadelphia. That house in England was stolen from me, ripped from my childish hands and I was never given a single say. That old shivering blue house, which I remember so clearly, a stranger. And just as I feared, the painting was lost to me.

Even now, as I wait here for Amelie’s funeral to end, I remember such things.

My cousin beside me weeps, her blonde curly hair dull and flat and she wipes her eyes and sniffs to hold back sobs. And I think of my childhood home. I think of the swingset behind the house, which my mother would sit on those days she felt so melancholic.

The casket begins to lower in the frosty ground. Jamie clings to my arm as she scrapes away her tears. “This is so sad,” is all she can whisper.

“Do you want to go out to eat after this?” I begin to slowly lead her away. We’ve had enough of this by now. I look up to give a wave to my Aunt Regina, with her hands on her youngest son’s shoulders as he, puffy-faced and red, put on a tough face. She nods, her face tired and grey.

“Yeah. Maybe pizza or something.” She gives out one last long, shaky sigh. “God. Isn’t this sad?”

“It is.” Snow crunches under my stiff black shoes. It had nearly been a blizzard the night before. Of course, we couldn’t cancel. Not often do you have your funeral on your birthday. “Pizza sounds good.”

As Jamie closes the passenger door, I hear my name being shouted. I turn, and I see my cousin.

“August, please wait a minute.” The chubby young man takes a few sharp breaths as he stomps over a pile of snow. “Will you?”

I dig a cigarette out of my pocket. “Of course.” Jamie taps on the window, and she and Cousin Ian exchange a shy wave.

“Who’s she?” He digs something out of his coat pocket as I set a light. “She’s pretty. Girlfriend?”

“She’s your cousin.”

He pauses to awkwardly blink for a few seconds, I take a puff, and he cheekily elbows me in the side. “Aw, shut up. Whatever, we’ve got a big family.”

I roll my eyes only to have a paper pointed at me.

I look to Ian to see his expression darkened. “This is a letter that Amelie wanted to give you before she died,” he says as I take the envelope. I flip it over to see the thin, cursive letters spelling out my name. “Um, she didn’t. But I was the one to find it, so I felt like I had to be the one to get it to you.”

Something in me hardens. “Thanks, Ian.” We give each other a pat, a goodbye, and turn away.

“Was that Ian?” Jamie asks as I sit down. Her eyebrows are stitched together, and she’s staring at the envelope.

“Shit, it’s cold in here.” I jam the key in place and the old vehicle seizures into life. “And yeah.”

“Oh.” She fixes her blotchy eye makeup in the rearview mirror, and without looking at me continues, “It’s weird seeing him. He was like, a baby last time I saw him.”

“That’s funny.” But I’m not smiling. No, I don’t feel much of anything as I tear the envelope open. It’s scary, in a small way. Amelie was my grandmother, the woman who tormented me for years. The rigid bitch who fucked me up to the point the minute I turned thirteen I ran away to France to live with my mother’s sister, my Aunt Regina. The same woman who raised Jamie, despite her not being either of our mother’s.

A hand touches mine. “Are you nervous?” Jamie’s eyes melt into mine. I must shield myself. The only person to ever make me cry was Jamie, and I know just looking at her, naked like this-

I wave it away. “No.”

I open it, and with one hand on my shoulder, Jamie reads:

August,

I have been meaning to speak to you for about one year now. I have come to regret some things with how you were raised under me. But what I regret most is not understanding you and not letting you understand me. Your mother was a bad daughter to put it kindly. You have been left in the dark by both she and I and I think, since you are now 22, you deserve the truth. However, a letter could not deliver the truth in a way that would make you understand.

Your father was a shameful excuse for a man. He was a horror to know, and when he abandoned Grace I told her I would be there for her, though she would be required to live under my rules. Not only did she not listen, but she deiced to cut all communication off from not only me but everyone in the family. It was a very painful time for me and I became bitter.

Grace met your father through a group of unruly young artist-type people, most of which were political radicals. The whereabouts of your father are unknown to me, however I do have the address, and only the address, of your mother and father’s mutual friend named Samuel Blau.

August, I have reason to believe that your father was involved in some sort of grand theft. Find the painting.

-Amelie

Snow falls softly around the car. My fingers are numb. And Jamie begins to cry. Of course that old witch would do this. She did it when she was alive.

I flick on the radio. “Let’s get going, now.”

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Is my header gif not working for anyone else or is it just me

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