Moving Through Unreality

'...I'm very sorry, ma'am. There's still been no sign of him. It's baffling. I understand completely how difficult this is for you. We will keep looking, but...'

Janet had already tuned out the officer's spiel. The policemen behind him, half filling the street on their sleek black horses, stood silent and still, almost as if in vigil. The first light of dawn was beginning to glow between the eastern buildings. She felt like she hadn't slept in months, but it had only been four days.

Four days and four nights of waiting for news. Listening to the apologetic words of those sent out to search. Worrying herself to the point of nausea. Reassuring Fred and Julie that their father was OK.

They were sleeping now, safe and warm in their beds. Janet had stayed up all night waiting for the search party to come back, after vehemently insisting that they report everything directly to her, no matter how insignificant. They'd agreed quickly. And she could see, somewhere past the veil of despair and shock, that they really did feel sorry for her.

She squashed a spiteful pang of hatred for them. They were trying - but she was relying on them utterly, and they were failing.

'Tell me honestly, Officer,' she said. 'Do you believe there's a chance you'll find him?'

The officer looked away for a second.

'I can't say for sure, ma'am, it's only been a few days--'

'But what do you think is going to happen?'

'I, personally, don't think we'll find him, ma'am. I'm sorry. I could be wrong, but my gut tells me no.'

She'd expected him to say this, but she wouldn't consider the possibility. She had to hold out hope that her husband was alive. At this point, she didn't even care what had happened, or what state he might be in, or what he had done, as long as he came back alive.

The search party departed. The clopping of horses' hooves went on for a long time before eventually fading into the dark, subdued streets. Shacklestone had never looked less familiar, Janet thought as she gently shut the front door. The city that she'd loved and grown up with had betrayed her. Stolen her best friend.

She had been reeling over it for so long, and only now was beginning to fully absorb the enormity of the situation, the grim implication behind the officer's words. If they didn't find Armin soon, they might cancel the search, write it off as a cold case. An unsolved mystery that would quickly be pushed from the minds of everyone except those who had known Armin.

Muted panic constantly simmered beneath the surface of her thoughts, shoved down only to save her children from seeing it and worrying too much. Her stomach felt like it had dropped into a void; she hadn't been able to eat all day. Her emotions veered between numbness and violent cascading emotion. This life couldn't be real, could it? Things like this didn't actually happen, did they? She walked into the living room and forced herself not to think.

Their couch was covered in rumpled blankets. She had been sleeping here - or trying to - ever since the night Armin hadn't come back, because she couldn't face going into their bedroom alone.

She briefly thought of Armin. His warmth, his casual grin, his height. How lightheartedly he joked around. How he always tried to stop her from getting up in the morning, because he wanted her to stay with him. Her mind went further back, remembering the handsome country boy she'd befriended all those years ago. Armin, at sixteen, shyly dropping a silver Haar into her palm and telling her it was a souvenir to remember her first visit to his home village.

Stop thinking about him.

The little fireplace glowed with embers, bright sparks of orange hiding among the coals. On the mantelpiece, a row of framed pictures stood. They didn't have many photographs of their life together, but a few moments had been captured and stood the test of time. Knowing it was a bad idea, Janet paused and picked up one of the photographs. Its brass frame was cool beneath her fingers, carved with abstract imagery of flowers and unidentifiable swirling patterns.

Her gaze lingered on the picture. Coloured, yet desaturated and grainy, showing a four-year-old Frederick sitting on a wall beside his two-year-old sister, looking down at the grinning girl uncertainly. Most wouldn't have seen the hint of fondness buried in his expression, but Janet knew he loved Julie dearly. He had always been rather protective of her, too; trailing her around the house and stopping her from getting into too much trouble. Janet hoped he would be able to protect her now - from the reality of her father's disappearance.

Blinking rapidly, she put the frame down hard. Didn't she just tell herself that she wasn't going to think about him? He was alive; he'd come back. The idea of never seeing him again was more than just horrible. She literally couldn't imagine it.