Haze of Oblivion: Forgotten Memories

By Bloodwitch Luz Oscuria

“My name is Catherine. I'm 35 years old. I own an apartment in Paris, and I have a well-paid job. I also have a 5 year old son, William, and a golden nanny, Claire. I have everything it takes to be happy. And yet…”

Being constantly checked by a psychologist, she tries to have a normal life amidst the moments when she loses ground between alcohol, depravity and blackouts. Being the sole witness to a murder in the convenience store where she usually does her grocery shopping, her already not so peaceful little life will be turned upside down in just one week.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloodwitch Luz Oscuria
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781071586679

Book preview

HAZE

OF

OBLIVION

Translated by Andreea Mirică

The Intellectual Property Code prohibits copies or reproductions intended for collective use. Any full or partial representation or reproduction made by any means whatsoever, without the consent of the author or his successors in title, is illegal and constitutes an infringement, under the terms of articles L. 335-2 and following of the French Code of intellectual property.

© 2019 Bloodwitch Luz Oscuria

Table des matières

MONDAY

TUESDAY

WEDNESDAY

THURSDAY

FRIDAY

SATURDAY

SUNDAY

MONDAY

- Hands in the air!

My blood is circling around my body. That voice is so cold, so deep, so... So many things are jostling in my head at this moment. I think I'm aware of what's happening, and yet I wonder...

- I said hands in the air!

The voice was already not very calm when it first rang through my ears. Now fear takes hold of me. What surrounds me is real. I recognize the place, even if my eyes have now just closed. Because of the fear, no doubt.

- I'm going to shoot you!

- No!

I raise my hands. The gesture is so mechanical that I’m not sure I did it. Then, only silence surrounds me. I can't see anything. I can't hear anything. It seems to me that I'm in a convenience store.

- The cash register!

The sound of a cash register's drawer reaches my ears. The cashier lets out a little cry. Then I hear the mugger load his gun. He's going to shoot, that's for sure. Whoever he is, and whatever he wants, there’s going to be a victim.

My name is Catherine and I’m 35. I was grocery shopping so that I could fill both mine and my son William’s stomachs. He’s 5 and patiently waiting for me at Claire's, his nice nanny to whom I entrusted him this morning before leaving for work. She was the one who took him to school, like she did every day from Monday to Friday. And she was the one who picked him up after school, gave him a snack, played with him... She did all the things that any mom would love to do with her child. But then again, I have a job – and, I must add, a fairly good salary – in a loan company affiliated with a well-known bank. I’m rich and I live in a beautiful apartment in the heart of Paris, all mine. Sacrifices do pay off.

- Hurry!

The return to reality is so harsh that my eyes open again, and I finally see what they refused to show me before: a hooded man, dressed all in black, pointing his gun at the poor terrified cashier’s temple as she empties the cash register money into the bag he impatiently hands her.

I should run away, and quick. However, I find it impossible to move. I'm still with my hands in the air, and I don't even know why. My gaze remains fixed on this man, whom it would be perfectly impossible for anybody to describe. He looks slim, and he's willowy. From where I am, I can’t see anything else. Nothing would distinguish him from anybody else, if not for his accent when threatening the cashier. Looks like he's awkwardly trying to change his voice, inventing a tone that he never had. Perhaps for the purpose of not being recognized? This is probably what I would have done too, if...

But I’m not a criminal! I’m an honest mother! I have a well-paid job, I have a son whom I love infinitely, I have a fantastic nanny who takes care of him as if he was her own son, I have... So many things. And yet I have nothing.

My son's father? I don’t know where he is. This man disappeared from my life before William was born. This is what happens when you don't choose the right person to start a family with. And no, it doesn't only happen to other people. I've been there too. I too had to face my share of trials, joys and sorrows. In theory, it’s mainly the latter that we recall. The positive things... I'm not sure where they went. They’re completely buried in the depths of my memories. So far away that I can hardly remember anything. Everything appears so dim. Nothing is ever clear.

That’s why I’m being constantly checked. Every week, I have to go see Dr Tullier, for a good hour at each session. He’s a good man, who manages – I don't know how – to embrace the suffering of people without batting an eyelid, and who always has good advice.

- Wham!

Then silence. He shot. Everything went so fast that there was nobody left when I decided to look in the direction of the cash register. Where is he? And the cashier, where is she?

I feel paralyzed at this precise moment. I’m very afraid of what I will find out when I approach the cash register. Because I know very well what I'm going to see there. A pool of blood on the ground and the cashier bathing in it. So where did the bullet she just caught go?

My shopping cart will wait, my feet directing me to the crime scene without my being able to resist. And at the end of these few meters which keep me from what expressly obscures my thoughts, I see it. Exactly what I imagined a few seconds earlier. I feel like I've been through this before. But when? Under what circumstances exactly? It’s impossible for me to remember, these images suddenly appearing distant. Like most of my memories, to be honest.

Silence has taken over the premises. It seems to me that I’m alone. As if there was already nobody there by the time I made my triumphant entrance, with my shopping cart at the end of its life, with its wheels so worn out that they all squeak in chorus, one after the other. Now this loneliness bothers me. In any case, I think it bothers me. I don't know, it's a strange feeling that comes over me and I don't know how to interpret it.

The cashier doesn't move. She bathes in her pool of blood without flinching. I think she's not breathing. I don't really want to check. By the time I think about it, I can already hear the police siren. Someone must have called them. Which – theoretically – I should have done.

Doctor Tullier. Suddenly, I feel like paying him a little visit. I absolutely have to tell him what I just witnessed. Will he believe me? Oh, he's bound to hear about it on the news or read about it on the Internet, or maybe both. Then it’ll inevitably be discussed in neighbouring bars, where he surely takes his morning coffee before going into his office.

He has a great place to welcome his patients. There’s a cosy waiting room with ambient music playing. He works alone. So when you walk in, no one greets you. You take a seat and patiently wait for him to come and get you. He's always on time, always well dressed, always polite, and very well-mannered on top of that.

He’s short for a man. Clearly, this isn’t the shooter. And yet, because of all the stories he hears every day, he would have at least one reason go over the edge, if not more. He’s so calm that it seems astonishing. Especially when you yourself are having a nervous breakdown right in front of him, to the point of being on the verge of throwing all those papers in his face. I can testify to that. I’ve already thought about doing so.

But he's kind and agreeable; he wouldn't have deserved such treatment. I would have blamed myself if I had dared to do it. That being said, his gentleness is unmatched by his physical appearance. He isn’t’ what you might call a handsome person, pleasant to look at. Like I said, he’s short. Then he is old. Not a single coloured hair has deigned to stay on his head, and it’s been a long time since only the white ones have taken up residence there. And because I've known him for an even longer time, I know he used to have dark hair.

However, he kept his hazel eyes and his jovial demeanour. And that’s fortunate, because I’m not sure I would have been tempted to continue visiting him otherwise. There have been a lot of times when I didn’t really want to go through the door of his waiting room – even though it was welcoming – and even less through that of his office – even if the office was nicely decorated in order to put his patients at ease. That’s simply because I never really liked it.

The siren of the police vehicle continues to ring, ever closer. After a few more seconds it stops, and two officers rush into the convenience store. One of them walks over to the cashier while the other stares at me for a few seconds. A woman. She walks up to me, gun in hand.

- Agent Cécile Couton. Ma'am, I have a few questions for you. Will you come with me outside?

I'm not sure I answered. Still, she motions in a friendly way, as to encourage me to get out of the store. So I find myself a few yards away from the front entrance, still close, and yet too far away to see what the other police officer is doing with the body. Too bad, I would have been interested to watch that.

- Were you here during the attack? Did you notice anything?

I hear myself replying that I did. But as far as what I've seen of it goes... Well, that’s another story entirely. You can’t say it’s a denial either. I just didn't see anything other than black. I had my eyes closed. I don't know if she understands that, because she seems so resolute in her questioning.

- I just heard a gunshot.

I thought I was getting rid of her. Unfortunately, the answer was far too plain to make her leave me alone.

- Did you notice anything that could help us in our investigation?

- Ah, yes, the shooter was slender. And he had a hoarse accent. I would even say downright forced, because it sounded so wrong.

She looks at me incredulously, as if she couldn’t make head or tail of it. What could I have said wrong? I answered her question and couldn’t add anything else.

- I'll take you to the station to make a statement. We need it as part of our investigation. Don't worry, everything will be fine and you shouldn't be worried about that afterwards. You can go home when it’s done.

I don't want to go to the station. I was supposed to finish my grocery shopping, then pick up my son from his nanny’s. How long will this procedure take? Can I at least give Claire a call to reassure her and tell her that I will definitely be late? I’m not sure it’s at all reassuring to tell her that my delay is due to a visit to the police station in order to make a statement. But I have to explain to her what’s going on, so she understands that I can’t pick up my son as planned.

Only, it appears that the nice policewoman isn’t so nice after all. She refuses. After all, who’s to say that I'm not an accomplice in this story? I look like a nobody, with my big cream-colored coat, my blue jeans with big holes in the right knee, my grey blouse and my brown hair held in a low bun, almost undone. Precisely, me raising suspicion in the agent may be because I look like this. 

Alright, let's go to the police station. I’ll solve the problem of picking up my son later. It’s true that there was a murder. And I witnessed it. My day was supposed to be normal, with a number of tasks to do after work: to pick up my son, go home, cook, and end the evening quietly in front of the television. Like any Monday, after all.

But not today. Today I have an evening of being surrounded by police officers ahead of me. I feel like I've been through this before. And yet, once again, I can’t remember under what circumstances. I would have to talk to Doctor Tullier about this very strange feeling of having already experienced what I’m going through now. But right now, I'm in a police vehicle, so it's not really