Maybe, the End

„You mustn’t be afraid, Ionna. Never. “

Her mother was a persistent woman. Always moving, working, lurking over Ionnas shoulder to do the same. Although her saggy face was carved with broad furrows of sorrow and exhaustion, her voice superimposed by thick layers of smoke and vodka, her hands and gestures rough and demanding; Ionna thought of her mother as loving. She felt loved. Not like she wanted or needed to be, but loved, nonetheless. However, she didn’t think her mother liked her very much. It didn’t matter to her. It wasn’t making her cry or angry, it was just how it was and how it would always be. They weren’t talking to each other, unless necessary. They each had their work to do, so there wasn’t any time to think about the other. Every day was the same: The war went on, people kept dying and those who were still alive wished to be dead soon.

Usually, in the mornings, Ionnas mother would send her out to the city well to get water for breakfast and occasionally stop by their neighbours to exchange some needles, yarn, even a package or two of nails she would collect along her way to get half a loaf of stale bread from the bakery. Whenever she passed the insufferably tall buildings, she felt piped down by those concrete giants blocking her sight. Whenever she would look up into the sky, fences of crumbling asbestos and leaking rust would rise with her, constricting her view into a stifling rectangle. As her head kept dangling in her neck, her eyes rolling back, trying to catch a view of what was behind her, her bulky boots would shuffle across the ochreous dust, too heavy to lift them properly, whirling up feathery hazes of sand, soon to be covering up her trails. Touches of the most vibrant green would fetch her out of her midday-trance, climbing around metal tubes and rotten window frames in bodies of ivy tendrils; lending a vision of what could become after the war…

Ionna, however, couldn’t think that far. She feared everyday that she or her mother would die. But if she were completely honest with herself, she sometimes wished for it. Wished for it all to end.

Whenever Ionna returned from her morning ventures and her mother was busy elsewhere, she would explore every corner, every angle of the old shag. It was at times like these that she wasn’t so afraid. The darkness that covered every surface and crevice at night was neatly tucked away behind curtains, in the bathtub or behind the basement door. From time to time she would get on her toes and try to lurk into the keyhole and wonder what the dark did all day, down there, in the cold, staying hidden. Was it sleeping? Or was it afraid of the light? Perhaps, one day, Ionna would muster up the courage to ask it, to oppose it properly, like her mother did, every night.

“I see” Ionna suddenly stumbled backwards. Her mother wasn’t home. A short cry escaped her lips.

“I see you staring at me, Ionna. Every day.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Everywhere you go, I follow. And you always look out for me.”

“I don’t understand. Who is it?”

“Ionna”

“Stop saying my name!” Ionna, now less scared than angry at her own ignorance and confusion, checked the room, rapidly turning her head upwards, sideways, down and up again. No one could be found. Her eyes now turning to the door again, Ionna’s confusion only grew.

“Behind the door?”

Her question wasn’t answered, rather dismissed with a prompt silence, only her breathing being heard.

“In the basement?”, Ionna whispered hesitantly.

“Yes”, said the dark.

Her flashlight sent a path down the wooden stairs, enlightening brittle grey walls and floating dust particles finally exhaled and perceived after years of hiding in the shadows.

“I’m afraid.”

“You mustn’t be.”

The voice was cawing, mimicking the prickly feel of her ill-woven jumper left on her skin. As tiny threads kept loosening and falling to the ground, disappearing down the creaky stairs, tears started to swell in the corners of her eyes but were swiftly brushed away by her perforated sleeve, leaving a harsh redness on Ionnas cheek. She couldn’t move. Not just yet. A gnawing concern of finding something she wasn’t prepared for grabbed the backbone, which she lacked – at least mentally.

“What do you want?” Her voice now wailing with fear or rather disgust for her own lack of courage, her mother’s eyes still over her shoulders.

“There’s something you ought to see. Only you.”

The certainty with which the voice sounded out each word gave Ionna a sense of calmness, she knew she shouldn’t be feeling. Nevertheless, would she follow it. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. Not the girl her mother silently despised, even if she never openly showed. Ionna felt the disappointment she set upon her mother with every glance she gave her. With everything she did or rather did not do. She would prove her wrong. Prove, that she was everything her mother wanted – Should have wanted.

“Ionna”, cooed the dark, “Come.”

With each step the muggy and mouldy stairs kept creaking and howling and with each step Ionna grew increasingly aware of the darkness that surrounded her, despite the flashlight guiding. As soon as she took the place the light once had, liquid gushes of black swept from left and right, from beneath her feet from the top of her head, closing in ever so tightly. Leaving no place for turning around. Ionna stopped.

“How much further?”

She tried to look back on her way but even her flashlight couldn’t penetrate the thick clouds of pitch-black nothingness, leaving her only to investigate the dusky depths of the cellar, not yet conquered.

“Not much.”

Yet again, the darkness appeared to exude nothing but calmness and a remarkable warmth that Ionna never felt before; howbeit, adomania crept under her skin, scorching every piece of flesh it could hold onto, she didn’t waver, didn’t flinch: She was ready. Thus, taking each step with aggrandizing confidence, her veins throbbed with expectancy of what was to come.

“You’re almost there. Only a few more steps, Ionna.”

As she took these last steps and left the abysmal cleft of darkened wood, cement and mould behind her, Ionna grabbed the hems of fabric remaining on her pullover and wanted to cry.

“What do you see?”

The dark now content with Ionnas position, it urged her to look. Pressed her to put into words, what she couldn’t understand.

“Who is that?”

Her flashlight was hanging loosely between her fingers, the dim light clashing against the dusty ground, showing all kinds of tiny particles rising to the ceiling, small fragments of concrete and dirt tumbling along – Flies. Ionnas eyes followed a chunky, blocky fly buzzing into the empty corridor. Not only her eyes, but now her feet grew curious of the minute creature, the humming gradually growing more vibrant until it was echoing around the whole space, leaving no room to breathe. The fly found her colony; A bulbous crowd of abrupt, unprecise movement of black and flashing red eyes circled a body of flesh. Torn apart, covered with crusty old blood, that has already turned brown: A horrendous smell of fish innards and dried out, mouldy watermelon filled Ionnas nose.

“Mama?”