Blackened by A.E. Richards

you are this way. You mistakenly believe me to be your long lost daughter, a young girl called Morna. But my name is Lisbeth. If you were in your right mind, you would see that I am not your Morna, much as you desire me to be. Sadly, grief has taken control of your mind. Loneliness – despair - has driven you to this, and that is something I can understand.”
    She stares at me for a long while. Says nothing. I wait, wondering if I have said too much.
    Finally she murmurs, “My name is Sorcha O'Floinn.”
    “Elisabeth Jane Cutteridge,” I say.
    She mutters something I do not catch then drifts into a frowning sleep.
    I rise from the bed, rinse the rag, hang it above the fire then tip the water onto some mud outside the hut.
    The night is caked in ice. The Arctic temperature taunts my recently frozen skin. I shiver, remembering the pain of being so cold, and hurry back inside.          
    The warmth and stench of cow dung welcomes me back. I look at the old woman. She sleeps, her chest rising and falling quickly, sweat beading her furrowed brow.
    I stand at her feet watching her: Sorcha O' Floinn. Old beyond belief yet still strong, stubborn, clutching at something she can never have. Something tragic must have occurred in her past. Something too terrible to remember, so terrible that her mind has constructed a fantasy to enable her to cope. Perhaps her little girl ran away or died of some ghastly illness.
    I try to imagine living entirely alone with no company save the light of the moon when the clouds decide to let it shine.  Although I know what it is to feel lonely, at least I have had the company of Eddie, Bethan and more recently Villette. Even Jean-Bernard, strange as he was, provided me some form of human company, some way to while away the time. But to spend a lifetime completely alone...it does not bear thinking about.
    I think of Mama. Is she alone? She never mentions where she is and, out of respect, I have never asked. But perhaps I should. Perhaps I should write her and find out where she is. Maybe I could even visit her, take Eddie with me...
    My heart races with excitement, only to be brought up short by another thought: Mama chose to leave us. She chose to go because she could no longer cope, I believe, with Father. She also chose not to take us with her. Therefore, if I were to pester her to let us come, maybe she would become angry, possibly so angry that she would decide it no longer appropriate to exchange letters with me.
    Anxiety squirms in my chest, niggles my brain. Why did Mama not take Eddie and I with her? What stopped her? Does she think us too much trouble? Is she happier without me in her life? Is there something wrong with me?
    I descend into blackness, drift to the fire and sit down. Staring into the yellow flames, I try to visualise Mama. Long black hair. White skin. Both like me. I can picture her outline, her shapes and colours, but the details of her face will not come. I end up with an image of me twenty years older, but it does not feel quite right. My heart flutters with alarm: why can I no longer picture her? Why do I doubt her love for me all of a sudden?
    Her letters! It must be because I have not been able to receive a letter from her for so long.
    I glance around the hut. I need paper and something with which to write. I need to write her. If I do not continue to write, she will fall from my mind and my life like the leaf from the autumn tree. She will float away and crumble into pieces that can never be pieced back together again. And with her my hope will fade.
    I search the hut – the wooden table, under piles of dirty rags, clothes, plates and bowls, underneath the bed. But I can find nothing, not even an old book.
    I slump over the table resting my head against the warm, dusty wood. My heart throbs. I clutch at thoughts of Bethan and Eddie – anything to banish the encroaching despair.
    Movement tugs at the periphery of my vision. The rats are back.
    Sighing