In 24 Hours

I watched the flames engulf the building. It was quite calming to watch everything I’ve ever known burn into nothingness. It was poetic. The life I built, the roots I’ve planted, all destroyed in this very moment.

24 hours before. . .

I walked out onto the porch, coffee in hand, as I did every morning. I sat in the wicker chair with the bluebird cushion instead of the one with the Hawaiian flower cushion. The porch was long and deep. The Cedarwood was recently sanded and polished by one of the neighbors. It lined the backside of the country house that I grew up in. It was surrounded by the forest and right outside the suburbs.

To watch the sunrise over the horizon was something I started doing with my mom when I moved back in to care for her in her final years with me. My father had passed away when I was a teenager. They both were stolen from me by cancer. Yes, I may have had a lot of time to spend with them, but I know I could’ve had more. I could also see the relief in my mother’s eyes as she finally succumbed to her illness. So, in a way, I’m happy they’re together again and no longer in pain. While at the same time, I’m angry that they left me here all alone.

My husband left me when I decided to take care of my mom. Not immediately, of course, but before a year or so. He said I had given up on our marriage, and accused me of caring little for him. I granted him his wish and gave into divorce as his abusive words didn’t let up. I had no time to dwell on whether or not to choose my husband or my mother, nor did I need time. I knew I would always pick my mother.

So, as the sky lit up with orange and pink and yellow, I let a tear fall from the corner of my eye. I am all alone.

I usually sulk around the house for the rest of the day after I sit on the porch for an hour or so. But not today. Today, I have to go through the legal paperwork that was sent to me. It was due tomorrow. I’ve been putting it off because, deep down, I can’t accept that I have nothing left in this world to live for.

So, I leave my empty coffee cup in the sink and make my way to the office door. With a deep sigh, I turn the golden knob and push the door open with my fingertips. I stared at the mountain of boxes that took up the corner next to the desk. It wasn’t really a mountain of paperwork. It was three boxes, but I digress. It was a lot of paper to go through.

12 hours before. . .

I stretched my fingers out in front of me. My joints had started hurting hours ago, but I ignored it and continued to write the letters.

I wrote letters to family members who were listed on the will. I told them of the passing of my mother and how her memory would be carried on. I explained what they had received from the will. It was a tedious task, but my mom requested it is done by me and only me. I reluctantly took the task. And now I deeply regret it.

Now. . .

It was all I could do to not collapse onto the ground in front of the flames and laugh. I wanted to laugh. It was a feeling that overwhelmed me, aside from the adrenaline that tore my stomach to shreds. It was like fight or flight was dead inside me. I stood frozen. There was no sense in running nor in trying to fight the flames. It was all gone now, and I was okay with that.

10 hours before. . .

I chewed on my cheek as I opened the last box, a box with my name written on the side. There was only one folder inside, with one piece of paper. It was a letter from my mother.

My dearest daughter,

You have been the light of my very existence. I have tried to protect you from the evils that lurk in the dark, but if you’re reading this, then I can no longer do such a thing. Please do forgive me and your father. I hope you can see past this minor mistake in our lives. You know we never meant you any harm. Call the number listed below.

With love,

Mom

It was a rather short letter, but I blew past the length and looked at the ten digits at the bottom of the page. I didn’t recognize it. The area code wasn’t even in this state. It was Colorado, I think. I picked up the landline and punched the number in slowly.

After three rings, a man’s raspy voice answered. “Hello, who is this?”

I cleared my throat. “Hello, this is Hannah Morris. I have a note from my late mother to call this number.”

The man hummed for a moment before he said, “Does this mean she’s passed on?”

“Yes, sir,” I confirmed for him. “Can I ask who this is?”

“No, you may not.” He said sternly. “I was told to tell you to call the Denver Police Department and tell them you found Charlotte Ward.”

Charlotte Ward? “Who’s Charlotte Ward?” I asked.

“You, my dear,” he said kindly. “You are Charlotte Ward.” And then the line went dead.

I felt my breath leave me and all my muscles froze into place.

Now. . .

The sirens that were muffled in the distance slowly grew louder and louder with every passing second. The lights presented them as multiple police cars and a single small-town firetruck pulled up behind me. I dropped to the ground on my knees, the grass cold against my calves. I started to laugh like a maniac, falling onto my side and holding my sides as they began to burn.

5 hours before. . .

I composed myself and placed the landline on the desk. My knees ached as I stood. This has to be a joke. My mother was always the joking type. This was just her last hurrah. Very funny, mom.

It was time for me to get some rest, anyway. So, I made my way into the small bedroom and laid down on the uncomfortable spring mattress.

4 hours before. . .

But sleep never came. I tossed and turned while the words of the raspy man repeated in my head. You are Charlotte Ward.

Call the Denver Police Department and tell them you found Charlotte Ward.

You found Charlotte Ward.

Charlotte Ward.

3 hours before. . .

“Denver Police Department. This is Detective Renold. How may I help you?” A woman spoke on the other line.

If all of this was a joke, they would confirm it. I just hope she understood that this was too far.

“I found Charlotte Ward,” I said, the ending sounding more like a question than a statement.

“Who?” the detective asked.

“Uh,” I chuckled. It was a joke. “Charlotte Ward.”

There was a moment of silence from the detective. On the other end, I could hear quick typing. “Oh, my God,” the detective gasped. Her voice was small, hidden by shock. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry?” Her response changed my entire tone. I was concerned. Maybe this wasn’t a joke. Maybe this was the truth. Had my parents never really been my parents afterall? Was my entire life a lie? Was I kidnapped?

“Charlotte Ward was stolen from the NICU thirty-two years ago,” She explained. “And you’re saying you found her?”

“I was told that I am her.”

“What do you mean you were told?”

“I mean, it was in a note that my late mother left me.”

“You’re going to need to come in for blood testing to make sure it really is you,” The Detective said, her voice was concealing joy. She was happy she would be the one to solve and thirty-two year old cold case. Of course she would, why wouldn’t she? “What’s your location? I’ll send someone to come pick you up.”

“I’m in Washington.” I hoped desperately she would let it go. I wanted to. I wanted to forget this.

“That’s fine,” she assured me, or she thought. She didn’t really assure me. “I’ll send someone to your address from your local precinct.”

I hesitated, but I wanted to be sure just as much as she wanted to. I told her my address.

Now. . .

I felt the cold metal of handcuffs being wrapped around my wrist. It hurt a bit, but I couldn’t complain. I wouldn’t complain. I needed to feel this pain. I feel like I have been numb for so long.

2 hours before. . .

I looked at the letter my mother wrote again. She wanted me to forgive her? How could I forgive her or my father? This wasn’t a minor mistake. This was a crime. I shoved the letter into my pocket and left the room. I wandered around the house, no longer able to comprehend what happened. My family, my mother, my father, weren’t real. Correction, they were real, but they weren’t mine.

What was mine? It felt like nothing, not memories, not items, not even my own name. My name was not Hannah Morris or Charlotte Ward. I don’t have a name. Nothing is mine.

As the sting of betrayal and distrust built up inside me, I wandered from room to room, thinking of memories, but seeing them from an outside point of view. They weren’t my memories.

1 hour before. . .

I stared at the room, tears threatening my eyes as memories flashed behind them. I watched as I, as a little girl, sat around the Christmas tree, opening gifts from the people I thought were my mother and father. But truly, it astonished me that I didn’t see it until now. I mean, how many people knew?

I ran into the garage and grabbed the gasoline my father kept in there for the lawnmower. The can, three-quarters of the way full, was just enough. I carried it to their bedroom and poured the liquid on the bed. . . dresser. . . carpet. . . into the hall. I repeated the process in the room I called my own before I took it to the office. I scattered the paper on the floor and dumped the freeing liquid on them. I had no intention of completing the tasks given to me.

The living room was next and then the kitchen, out the front door. I ran out of gasoline on the porch. Perfect.

I pulled the lighter and note from my pocket and set fire to it. It would burn with the house. I watched the flame scatter across the gasoline. It was beautiful. It lit up the house, but not completely yet. It just looked like someone went through and turned all the lights on.

I watched the flames engulf the building. It was quite calming to watch everything I’ve ever known burn into nothingness. It was poetic. The life I built, the roots I’ve planted, all destroyed in this very moment.

It was all I could do to not collapse onto the ground in front of the flames and laugh. I wanted to laugh. It was a feeling that overwhelmed me, aside from the adrenaline that tore my stomach to shreds. It was like fight or flight was dead inside me. I stood frozen. There was no sense in running nor in trying to fight the flames. It was all gone now, and I was okay with that.

The sirens that were muffled in the distance slowly grew louder and louder with every passing second. The lights presented them as multiple police cars and a single small-town firetruck pulled up behind me. I dropped to the ground on my knees, the grass cold against my calves. I started to laugh like a maniac, falling onto my side and holding my sides as they began to burn.

I felt the cold metal of handcuffs being wrapped around my wrist. It hurt a bit, but I couldn’t complain. I wouldn’t complain. I needed to feel this pain. I feel like I have been numb for so long.

I was carried to a police car once they realized I wouldn’t stand for them. It’s not that I wouldn’t stand for them, it’s that I couldn’t stand, at all.

I thought the pain would make me feel something. It didn’t. Once the car pulled away from the burning house, burning memories, burning lies, I forgot all of it. I couldn’t force myself to think about it. I thought I knew numb before, but I was so, so wrong.