Untitled part 1 attempt 2

Hannah thought nothing of the knock on the door; however the dog was not so nonchalant. He reacted immediately, launching himself against the door panel, scrambling and barking, warning off the unseen intruder. She grabbed his collar and dragged him into the kitchen. He grinned at me wolfishly, tail wagging.

“Samson stay.” she commanded, lowering her voice to show she was serious. Dejected, Samson slumped onto the floor. The knocking was becoming a hammering. “Hang on!” Hannah called, sliding the kitchen door closed. Samson whined.
“ Sorry about that, the dog…” suddenly she didn’t know what to say. A uniformed policeman was standing on the doorstep. Looking at her.

“Is this the Gordon residence?” he continued without a pause, seeing her nod. “Are your parents home?”

She felt like she was being interrogated and fought the urge to protest her innocence for whatever heinous crime he might be about to accuse her of. She mentioned towards the staircase.
“I’ll just go get my mum, my dad is at work though.” Hannah replied quietly and a
little nervously.

Hannah could hear Samson frantically scratching the kitchen door. Ignoring him she raced upstairs towards her mum’s study. Hannah rushed in without knocking, Mrs Gordon looked at her daughter quizzically from her computer screen.

“What’s the matter Hannah? I’m a bit busy darling.”

“There is a policeman downstairs, he wants to speak to you.”

“God! What has Izzy done now?” Mrs Gordon’s voice sounded weary at the mention of her other daughter.

Hannah was annoyed that her mum immediately jumped to the conclusion that Isabelle was responsible. Being that they were twins, Hannah felt compelled to jump to her defence, but now wasn’t the time to start a row, so instead she simply said, “Oh, Izzy wasn’t with him.”

Mrs Gordon rolled her eyes; she knew Hannah felt compelled to defend Izzy no matter what she did. She sighed remembering how Hannah would often take the blame for her sister when they were children. Hannah was concerned for her nonetheless. She had a bad feeling, before the policeman even spoke. A chill ran through her and she hugged myself tightly for a moment, unnoticed by anyone else.

“ I’m here about your daughter Isabelle Gordon…”

Mrs Gordon cut him off, “ What has she done this time? Whatever it is I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.” My mum laughed, “After all you know how children can be!” the false cheerfulness and the way she softened her accent, her telephone voice as Hannah and Izzy had called it, irritated Hannah.

The policeman frowned, “Oh no, its not that, she’s not in trouble,” he flustered for a moment, unable to find the words, “She’s had an accident, she’s…I’m so sorry.” Hannah was unable to take in the rest of his words, his lips moved but there was no sound.

She looked over at her mother, watched all the colour drain from her face, she swayed as though drunk. Hannah noticed the policeman take her arm and guide her over to the sofa. Mrs Gordon sank into it limply and began to cry, it was as though she was collapsing inwardly. Hannah couldn’t move.

The policeman turned to her, “Is there anyone I can call for you? Your father?” he asked softly, all the while he kept looking at Hannah. No doubt thinking of Izzy lying on a mortuary slab Hannah thought with a shudder.

She nodded. “He’s at work. The number is on the fridge.” Her voice was unrecognisable it didn’t seem to belong to her. Each word was an effort.

He touched Hannah’s shoulder lightly, and she heard him go towards the kitchen, remembering too late that the dog was in there. She heard the puppy leap at the policeman excitedly but it was muted, as though it was happening far away. She knew I should get the dog under control and comfort her mum but she couldn’t move.

It was only later when her dad came home that Hannah moved. He pulled her to him and she rested her head on his shoulder. Mrs Gordon whimpered quietly, unable to cry anymore. Mrs Gordon guided his daughter towards the sofa next to his wife, his arms around them both. He noticed his wife begin to cry again, Hannah did not.

“Stop!” Hannah suddenly screamed, screaming the word over and over. Mrs Gordon jumped, momentarily silenced. Mr Gordon held his daughter tighter, rubbing her back as he had done when she was a baby. Hannah broke away, fleeing upstairs. She ignored his pleading eyes, ashen face, and her mother’s tears.

She reached Izzy’s bedroom before she even become conscious of where she was going. Hannah stood in the doorway for a moment; everyone needed permission to go in Izzy’s room, even her. Then it hit me then that Izzy wouldn’t be granting her permission. She felt sick and collapsed onto her sister’s bed distraught. Hannah grasped for Izzy’s bear, it was squashed into the gap between the bed and the wall. They had been given them when they were born, twin bears for twin girls their dad had told them. They had always liked to hear the story.
The bears were indeed identical, just like the girls were. Hannah noticed that Izzy’s was raggedier than her own, the pink of the bear’s fur more faded and threadbare.

“Izzy always was the more careless one.” Hannah said quietly, “Look where it got her.” Shutting out these thoughts Hannah nuzzled the bear close, pressing her face into her sister’s pillow.

A loud smashing sound awoke her sometime later. She gazed up and saw her dad, saw that he was trembling. The floorboards were covered with shards of broken crockery; Hannah noted the handle identifying it as a mug. Strange what you notice she thought.

“For a moment I thought…I thought you were her.” Dad wept. Hannah hugged him until he stopped sobbing, “I’m sorry.” He whispered. She said nothing.

Hannah couldn’t bring myself to go into Izzy’s room after the incident with Dad. She didn’t want to upset him again, it’s the only time she had ever seen her dad cry, and it unnerved her. He was always so strong. None of the family ventured into Izzy’s room, and Hannah stayed in her own room mostly as she couldn’t bear going downstairs and facing her parents, she felt guilty of reminding them of Izzy and guilty that she survived. Mr Gordon busied himself with informing relatives and friends and of course organising the funeral.

Hannah wanted to help as she knew Izzy best, She knew her favourite songs, had anecdotes to share, and she knew what outfit Izzy would want to wear, but this wasn’t a party it was a funeral so it didn’t feel right. Hannah’s parents wanted a traditional catholic affair, it seemed to help Mr Gordon to have something to do so she let him organise it all.

She convinced herself that it didn’t matter that Izzy would have hated what he was planning, that she would have been mortified to be seen in the dress he had selected and would have yawned through the readings he chose. She shut all these thoughts out.

The funeral took place 2 weeks later. Oddly, it was uncharacteristically sunny. Everyone seemed disappointed as though they expected the clichéd rainstorm that you see in films. Hannah was glad, finally something Izzy would have approved of. She hated rain, she always moaned that it made her hair frizz.

Mum came into her room, as she was getting ready. Hannah was carefully applying mascara in front of the mirror and Mrs Gordon picked up her daughter’s hairbrush, running it through Hannah’s hair. She had already brushed it but didn’t say anything; she just listened as her mum counted to 100 softly. It was barely audible but Hannah knew she was doing it anyway. It was what she and Izzy had done as children when their mum brushed their hair. Hannah remembered how they wouldn’t let her stop until the count ended, because one of Izzy’s friends at school had told her that was what princesses did. This routine continued for years until they were too old to have their hair styled by their mum.

“Such beautiful hair, your crowning glory.” She finally said.
Hannah turned towards her, barely recognising the women in front of her. She was so frail, so fragile. She took the brush from her mum gently and laid it on the table. The skin of her hand felt like paper and it seemed as though she had aged years in just weeks.

“Time to go.” Hannah replied, wincing as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.

Throughout the funeral Hannah felt numb, She was just going through the motions. People hugged her but Hannah barely felt it, they offered words of condolence but she didn’t hear them. Nothing was real. It was dreamlike, a surreal nightmare that she couldn’t escape. Her eyes remained riveted to the coffin on the altar.

Suddenly she felt all eyes in the room on her, people were whispering and she realised that the priest was motioning her into the pulpit. Hannah got to her feet but when she walked she felt like she was wearing lead boots. She felt light-headed and sick. Her head was pounding and everything looked distorted, the colours too vibrant. It was difficult to breathe. She blacked out.

Hannah woke up in her bed at home. Her dad was at her bedside.

“You had a panic attack sweetheart.” He answered the question she hadn’t even asked.

It occurred to him then that his daughter barely spoke anymore. He was worried, she hadn’t even cried. He didn’t know what to do. He felt his daughter looking at him and he couldn’t bear the sorrow in her eyes a moment longer. He kissed her on the forehead and left with his head in his hands.

The weeks after the funeral passed slowly for all of them. The grief was stagnant and suffocating. For a while no one ate or slept or left the house, but then Mr and Mrs Gordon started going to church on the advice of friends. It was a great comfort to them although they hadn’t been practicing Catholics before. They tried to convince Hannah to go but she ignored them. Mr Gordon also began to work longer hours at work. Some sort of routine returned to the household. Except Hannah didn’t follow the routine, she still didn’t eat or sleep.

Mrs Gordon was terribly concerned. She approached her daughter one afternoon, as she lay sprawled on the sofa in her Pyjamas. The T.V flickered soundlessly in front of Hannah’s eyes unnoticed, a Talk Show on mute. Mum turned it off and pushed away Hannah’s legs to make room for herself next to her.

“Hannah honey, look at you. Why don’t you go have a bath and I’ll make you some yummy Hot Chocolate how does that sound?”

Wordlessly Hannah sat up; Mrs Gordon smiled as her daughter obediently made her way upstairs.