Unnatural Instinct: Wish
Epilogue

It’s been a while since I’ve been in your house. Not since I was a teenager. Rarely did we ever come to visit you. Always, you came to visit us. Every year, three times a year, without fail. No matter where we moved. No matter where you moved. Even if you had to travel across the country. You always rang. You always kept in touch. You always sent presents.

You were the best auntie—and now you’re gone.

I remember your last moments in hospital, grey-haired and shrunken, half the woman you once were before you became so old that your heart gave out. It was a good death, though. I will never forget the way you smiled as you took my hand.

‘Do not feel sad,’ you said in a strangely clear voice. ‘Know what’s important.’

‘I will, Auntie.’

‘He’s waiting.’

‘Who, Auntie?’

But you never said, closing your eyes and falling back asleep. Hours later you were dead.

Did you mean your father? Did you mean your brother (my father)? He died a few years before you. It’s possible but somehow the look in your eyes told me otherwise. As though it was something secret.

Now, I stand in your living room, helping to pack away your things, to sell or keep or throw away. Though your house is small and modest, you were a wealthy woman. A successful lawyer of many decades, how couldn’t you be?

I start pulling books from your shelves as I think about you. A successful woman you were but you were always alone. No children. Never a man in sight. I always worried that you were lonely. I have a husband and grown children of my own and I can’t understand how you couldn’t have wanted the same. Or did you and you were just unlucky?

The thought makes me tear up more and I have to pause to wipe my face.

‘Lilly, are you okay?’ my brother asks as he passes through the living room carrying a heavy box.

I nod. ‘Just … thinking.’

I continue to pack away your books, briefly looking at their covers. Most are legal textbooks. There are many classics. Lots of romance and fantasy and horror. You always were a big reader. Then I come across one that makes me take pause. I don’t know why it does. The cover is hardly striking, a simple green background with raised gold lettering.

‘The Dark Prince,’ I say, brushing my fingers over it.

It looks brand new, as though it’s never been read before. Unusual. I flick through the pages, stopping at an unexpectedly vibrant picture. It looks like some kind of ball. Everyone is wearing masks and they’re all dancing together. At the centre of the scene is a couple.

The woman is wearing a white mask and a pink dress, which is flaring around her as her partner spins her about. As for him, even behind the mask, I can tell that he’s tall and striking and much more than what he seems. This is obviously the Dark Prince. And yet, despite his arresting depiction, it’s not him I’m looking at.

I frown as I stare at his partner. There is something oddly familiar about her but why should that be? Have I read this book before? I flick through more pages until I come upon another picture. It’s of the couple again. The woman is sitting on the edge of a bed, holding out her foot as the man kneels before her. He’s taken off her shoe and is kissing her on her inner ankle. His mask is off but hers is still on. Just like the last picture, I experience a wave of what I can only describe as chilling familiarity.

I sit on the couch, trembling slightly as I flick through more pages. Finally, I land on a picture where she isn’t wearing a mask. In fact, she isn’t wearing anything, splayed out shamelessly in bed with the Dark Prince, her face contorted in pleasure. I stare, unable to pull my eyes away, unable to grasp the truth that is sitting right before my eyes. I know that face. I know it! Even as I can’t believe it.

‘Not possible.’

I put the book down and hurry over to a box I packed earlier. I search through the pile of albums and picture frames. Most are of us but some are of you. I mostly remember you as an older woman. I do vaguely recall you living in my father’s garage many decades before but I can’t be certain what you looked like.

Buried near the bottom of the pile is a very old picture. As I stare at your youthful, laughing face, I can’t believe my eyes. I go back to the book and compare the two pictures. The resemblance is uncanny.

The back of my neck prickles. ‘It can’t be.’

I close the book, feeling a little embarrassed seeing you in such an intimate way. Even if it is only a drawing.

‘Billy?’ I call.

‘Yeah!’ his voice echoes down the hall.

‘Did Auntie ever write a book?’

‘What?’ I can hear his footsteps as he approaches. He enters the living room.

‘Did she ever write a book?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he says with a frown. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I shake my head mutely as I read through the first page, my pulse pounding, my throat dry.

Dying wasn’t easy, but it was bearable knowing she would soon be with her Dark Prince forever. Even as she clasped Lilly’s hand, her thoughts were already drifting away. Drifting to him and his obsidian castle beyond the marshes …

Billy is reading over my shoulder and I hear his breath catch. We both look at each other, our eyes wide. Now he’s the one who’s ashen.

‘Do you think she wrote this?’ I ask.

‘Of her own death?’

The book slides from my grasp. As it hits the floor, it opens upon a page further towards the back. It’s another picture. It’s of you. You’re looking directly up at us, youthful and healthy, as you smile and wave.

There’s a caption down below:

Know what’s important.

Frozen with shock, we stare.