Colours in the Mist Read online

  E. P. MacLachlan

  Colours in the Mist

  First published by Kindle Direct Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by E. P. MacLachlan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-7399955-0-8

  Editing by Thomas Button

  Editing by Lisa Edwards

  Cover art by Natasha MacKenzie

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For Mum and Gran,

  Thank you for showing me the love of reading.

  Acknowledgement

  There are so many of you I wish to thank but I know what it will be impossible to do so, so know that if you have spoken, encouraged or even asked how my writing is going within these past years know that you have made an impact. Given me a little push, and kept me going. I couldn’t have achieved what I have without you.

  But there are those that I wish to put into the spotlight that I know Colours in the Mist wouldn’t exist without.

  Arnella - meeting you through an online group and building up a critique partnership and friendship with you have been some of the best experiences throughout my writing journey. You saw my draft in its infancy and helped me develop it into something stronger, you were always around when I questioned something and wanted someone to run it by. I can’t thank you enough for the help, support and encouragement you have given me, but most importantly friendship.

  Emma - you have literally been my number one cheerleader since I first told you I was writing, reading my manuscript numerous times, at all different stages of its development. And completely coming up with its title. This story wouldn’t be where it is now without you.

  Hannah - Thank you for being an amazingly supportive friend, you have put up with my constant rambling about writing and helped me through some tricky issues I’ve come across!

  Gee - Thank you for your unending support and for being a sensitivity reader and for helping me identify anything that could be triggering. Thank you for making me feel welcome within the online writing community and becoming such a wonderful friend.

  Emily - Thank you for making me feel so welcome and becoming such a supportive friend. I am so pleased we have met through the Writing Community.

  My family and boyfriend, Kristian - this truly couldn’t have been done without you. You have all supported my dream of writing asking how I am getting on and listening to me on so many occasions talk about my characters and their journey. I hope I have made you proud.

  Online writing community - There are so many of you I wish to thank, Esme, Rosalyn, Selena, Tracey, Erin and many, many more. You have all been so incredibly supportive of my writing and answering so many of my questions. I don’t think I could have built the confidence I have without you.

  Reader - And you, my dear reader, I thank you. I thank you for taking a chance on my book, a book that has been with me for many years. I thank you for helping an aspiring author achieve their dream. I hope you enjoy the journey.

  Can you see the colours?

  Content Warnings

  Attempted rape

  Attempted sexual assault

  Beating (mild)

  Child neglect

  Emotional abuse

  Graphic injuries, blood and violence

  Loss of a loved one (mentioned)

  Physical and verbal abuse

  Physical assault

  Prologue

  17th November 1918

  Dear Diary,

  It happened again today. Why? Mother just makes me so nervous, and I can’t seem to get anything right. Even if I do, it is never perfect … never enough. I had to plead with Miss K. not to drop me from this winter’s ballet performance after I twisted my ankle during practice. Miss K. tried to say that I would not be ready to perform and I had to insist that I would be. Mother will be so disappointed in me if I don’t. It’s an endless struggle to satisfy her, and I know my efforts are futile.

  God, I wish Father was still here.

  It feels as I grow older, my resemblance to Mother becomes less obvious than before. Sometimes I like to think that her distant, almost cold, nature is merely a result of me reminding her of Father. But in truth, I know it is not so. I was not lucky enough to have inherited his warm chocolate hair, and sun-speckled mahogany eyes either; my only similarity to him is my fondness for nature. I bear no physical resemblance to Father or to the mother that bore me. It baffles me to think about how two polar opposites could have found such happiness in each other. Yet, the saying rings true that opposites attract, I suppose.

  Father always seemed to know what I was thinking, which, I suppose should have been unsettling; but I always found it comforting, as words have not always been my strongest ally. Mother, on the other hand – her ice-blonde locks are always a shade of platinum; as if all the warmth was stolen from them. I suppose they are fitting, matching her glacial blue eyes and cold demeanour.

  The only time I have seen her soften is in the presence of Hugh. Even for his icy soul, he is the spitting image of our father, though it seems my dearest brother may possess more of Mother’s characteristics than you may first think. His spiteful, cruel behaviour may take on a different form than her heavily veiled disinterest, but he has taken after her in many ways, ensuring I feel like an outcast from my own family, going as far as to imply I was adopted.

  Truthfully, there are times that I dream that his slight is true and that I am adopted. To believe that out there is a family who possesses the same hair as me: a colour resembling the last dregs of a candle wick burning … begging for just a few seconds longer to remain ignited. My eyes – large and so far removed from either of theirs – are emerald, which in the sun can change colour as if held within are all the green hues of nature. Funny, really, my hair resembles the colour of destruction, whilst my eyes hold a variety of the colour of life.

  Alas, these are my circumstances and I must endeavour to make the most of them. To continue trying my hardest to satisfy this family, from whom I feel so far removed.

  It is times like this that make me miss Father. I know I complain about him a lot – how he was always away on business and even when he was home he did not seem to have time for me – but Frank, Mother’s new husband, is terrifying. Hugh’s cruelty, which has always terrified me, withers in the face of his.

  I still remember the time I spoke of flowers, and he shut me away. I sometimes wonder if it was the context of my conversation or the mere fact that I had spoken at all that had encouraged his response. So, to help refrain from spouting pointless talk, I turn to eating, keeping myself silent, which has also been the result of many arguments between Mother and me. She insists that I need to be mindful, or else I will struggle to be suitable for the show next month at all… It begrudges me to know that she is right.

  Looking in the mirror has become harder as of late, knowing that the reflection looking back has caused my family so much discontent for not being like them, for looking so different. People make jokes that Mother and Father stole me from someone else. This too has given me pause, wondering whether it is true.

  I must go, someone is coming…

  Lorian.

  Lorian

  The suffocating darkness.

  The never-ending pain.

  The numbing loneliness.

  It all came rushing back as if a stampede of horses were running through my skull.

  Then light.

  Cracks of light, ever so slowly, creeping, tiptoeing into my vision – timid, and almost apologetic, as if they knew what sort of pain washed through me and tentatively crept closer, knowing their impact would be just as brutal.

  What could be happening?

  I dived deep into my fragmented memory. This pain made it so hard to focus. Deeper, I pushed past the hurt that laced through my head, begging for a scrap of something that might help me decipher this moment.

  A cottage, slightly ramshackle, sitting between other wooden houses.

  Maria’s cottage.

  Then pain…

  Excruciating pain.

  Was this another fever dream? Or was this the ointment finally burning away the sickness? Was I going to wake up looking into Elijah’s face?

  Just as Elijah’s face came into focus, the hooked claws of a headache took hold, willing me to keep my eyes shut. Closing off the memories that tried to flood me, I banished everything from my mind.

  I couldn’t think about that yet.

  I couldn’t think about him yet. At that moment, all I could know for sure was that I was alive.

  The first thing I had to do was to find somewhere to wash. Although my eyes still remained shut from the thrumming still pulsing in my head, my imagination could discern what I must have looked like: dishevelled to say the least. Death, I’ve no doubt, would cower at the sight of me.

  Trying to regain my composure, I was forcing myself to take a deep calming breath when I was infused with a deep ea
rthy smell. It seemed to fill my whole being, not leaving an inch untainted.

  In an effort to try and make sense of the situation I found myself in, I pulled at a thread of memory. I was transported back to The Slums. The sickness had just broken out, and within the local crypt, even the candles could not mask the damp stench of the dead.

  Fear doused me in one sudden flood, pulling me back to the present, and I began to feel more conscious of the space that surrounded me. My mind was fighting to comfort me that I was very much still alive. None of this made sense… Why was I in the crypt? If I was there, surely I was not buried?

  Seeking clarity to my situation, I sought out my other senses, my sight still hindered from the weight of the pain held behind my eyes. Listening intently, I strained to hear the sound of anything around me. Nothing. Confirmation that I was alone, adding fuel to my rapidly increasing fear.

  I concentrated harder, willing my hearing to return.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  I kept counting until slowly, tauntingly, a small sound tickled my ears. But … everything around me appeared muffled as if I was listening through a door; as if nature itself was guarding against me.

  I’m being silly, I told myself, willing my terror to subside. Realisation flooded through me. I flexed my fingers. I was lying on compacted dirt. This couldn’t be the stone floors of the crypt.

  Bolting into an upright position, my body protesting with every movement, I felt a dull ache spread slowly through my very being, like oil spreading through water, as feeling began to return. The earthy atmosphere had infected my taste buds, leaving my mouth dry, as if full of soil.

  Forcing my eyes open I was immediately blinded. Patiently, and against every sense of self-preservation I had, I waited for my eyes to adjust to my surroundings. The black fog of my headache still clung to my mind like fog clings to a heavy sky.

  Blinking my eyes to try and clear the remainder of my vision I took in my surroundings. I was sitting in the middle of the floor of what once must have been a barn, but it was now abandoned. The building was dilapidated, and the roof, once a barrier sealing out the night, was caving in, allowing the silvery light of a moon that I could just see, to shimmer through the gaps.

  Glancing around the rest of the room, I picked out other recognisable objects, confirming my suspicions: feeding troughs, hay forks and old tractor tyres that I had only seen in books. There was also something else – it wasn’t anything I could see but I could not shake the feeling that there was something wrong, something I was missing that should be as plain as the nose on my face.

  After a few minutes of deliberation over my odd feeling, and coming to no conclusions fast, I hauled myself off the floor and stretched up to my full height, onto my tiptoes. Everywhere ached like I had been asleep for a hundred years. Moving across the room I tried to rotate some of my joints to ease the stiffness cocooning them; even walking felt strange. I’d managed to make my way over to a set of old hay bales. Their deep musty smell was oppressive, clinging to everything, making the air heavy.

  Feeling a little claustrophobic, I hurried towards the exit and out of that cursed place to find my way back home. As I stumbled out of the barn, I was engulfed in a white blinding light, which caused my head to spin. The sudden assault scrambled my already frayed senses; my knees buckled from under me and sent me hurtling onto the soft damp grass below.

  Gasping for breath and trying to calm myself, I took small pleasure in realising the earthy taste in my mouth had subsided, and my eyes began to adapt to the increased amount of light. As they began to focus, albeit too slowly for my liking, my pulse thick in my ears, I silently prayed that I hadn’t strayed too far from home. Yet as my surroundings grew clearer, I could feel my panic rise further, along with my already-throbbing pulse.

  The place looked ravaged, devoured by some sort of disease. A sickly hue clung to every living thing in sight, causing it to appear a grey shadow of its former self. The trees were like dark silhouettes against the bright white of the sky, as if painted there just moments before. A light drizzle had just begun, adding to the eerie atmosphere, and drained me of what little warmth my body dared cling to, pooling into the cold lifeless ground below me.

  Where was I?

  A muffled sound drifted in the distance; my ears struggled to capture it as they roared with the sound of my pulse. There it was again, but louder this time, as though it was coming closer. I concentrated hard as I focused on the sound again.

  “Hey, excuse me. Are you okay?”

  I heard the voice, but it was still slightly muffled. A shadow fell over me where I was still kneeling, looking at the damp grass as I concentrated on deciphering the sounds. The shadow blocked out the pale light of the sun – it was the sun giving off this strange light not the moon as I had thought. Someone cleared their throat.

  A pair of strong legs and heavy boots came into view, each covered in what looked like a dusting of snow. I did not dare raise my head too quickly for fear of being thrust back into my previous affliction, but as a gentle breeze drifted past, stirring up the snow-like substance and chilling my damp skin, I realised it was not snow. Focusing more acutely on the boots, I realised it was sawdust. A woodsy smell lingered.

  Before I dared to risk using my voice, which was sure to be raspy from the feel of my throat, the stranger cleared his throat again. Though this action could have been a sign of agitation, I could tell from the slight shuffle of his boots, it was more an awkwardness from my lack of response.

  A few moments passed as I willed my voice to cooperate with me as it had failed to do so on so many occasions, forcing myself to answer for fear of appearing rude. “Oh, um, I’m sorry. What was it you said?” My voice was coarse, quiet, as my mouth was still trying to find moisture but to no avail. Raising my eyes slowly I took in the stranger that the shadow belonged to. Strong, and broad, I had to tilt my chin up to look into his face.

  To my shock, I received a smile. His eyes glinted in amusement at my predicament. His skin, although pale, had a slight inkling of a warm honey tone. If I was not hunched embarrassingly on the ground, I would put him standing at least a foot taller than my five foot three inches.

  He had deep grey eyes, which turned up at the corners as he smiled. They were framed by black lashes that had been dampened by the rain, which grew finer as each moment passed, now only hanging in the air like mist. His hair hung limp with moisture, falling flat over his ears; he kept trying to tuck his hair behind them. His most striking feature, however, was a birthmark branded on his right cheek. Initially I mistook it for soot, and it wasn’t until he brushed his hand across his face to remove the lingering rain droplets that clung there, that I realised what it was.

  Chastising myself for staring, I averted my eyes. Behind the young man was a large wagon with a single horse harnessed to it. Why was everything so bleak? Everything was so bland, colourless… Was something wrong with my eyes? Before I could contemplate this further, I was drawn back to look at the man as he spoke. Even the honey colour had gone from his face.

  “I said, are you okay? I was coming up the track and saw you fall. You annoy someone?”

  Sounding bewildered, and slightly irritated, his words – although seemingly innocent –were betrayed by his curt tone.

  In an effort to compose myself I flung my aching body upright, my legs quaking from the suddenness of my movement. Willing strength into my legs I pulled myself to my full height and responded with a glare. “What are you talking about? Why would it mean I have annoyed anyone? Simply falling over isn’t anyone’s fault, or business, for that matter…”

  My response only seemed to amuse him further, as he tried to conceal his laughter with a cough, stealing the last of my patience.