Chapter 4

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Freja found herself in her cramped kitchen, gazing at the device in her hand. She had just uncovered twenty-eight missed calls from her sister, Freja. Instead of calling her back, she moved to the fridge and retrieved the leftover boiled rice she had prepared that morning. 

She must have silenced her phone during work; the day had been a whirlwind of dashing out the door, getting caught in the downpour, and accepting a ride from a coworker. Now, back in her apartment, the missed calls loomed heavily in her thoughts.

 After taking a deep breath, Freja finally decided to return her sister’s call. The phone connected, and Clinton's voice greeted her immediately.

“Freya, you've called me twenty-eight times?” Freja grabbed a fork, her fingers trembling slightly. “Freya, I told you I'm not coming home for the get-together party.”

“Freja, it’s Clinton.” The fork halted mid-air as Freja felt her stomach plummet.

Clinton was the last person she wanted to speak with. “Why are you using Freya's phone? Why would you do such a thing?” she asked, dread infiltrating her voice.

“Freya’s dead...” The phone slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the floor as she hurried to retrieve it, but the screen was dark.

Her hands shook as she attempted to restart the phone. What did he mean by Freya was dead? She must have misunderstood; there was no way.

Freja fought to steady her breath, but it came out harsh and uneven. Why wouldn’t the phone power on? Was this some cruel joke? She had chatted with Freya just a few weeks prior.

As her thoughts spiraled out of control, the phone finally booted up. Freya's name reappeared, and she answered, her heart racing.

“Freya, if you believe you can get me to come this time, you’ll need to try a different tactic. Why did you bring Clinton into this?”

“Freja, please listen, I’m not joking. I just need you to know and ask you to return to honor your sister.” Clinton's tone was low and serious, leaving no room for skepticism.

“Are you saying that Freya is….dea...” The word caught in her throat, refusing to escape.

A chilling sensation enveloped her like a deluge of ice as reality began to set in.

She understood he was speaking the truth when she heard his voice. Clinton didn’t jest about matters like this; he seldom spoke to her at all.

“Hello. Are you there?” he inquired gently.

Tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “I….I will come.” The call ended, and the phone fell from her hands. In a rush of despair, she threw her plate against the wall. The crash of breaking ceramic rang through the room, and remnants of rice scattered across the floor. She slumped against the wall, her head pounding under the weight of her sorrow.

The cool wall pressed against her back as she slid down, and the aroma of rice still hung in the air. She buried her face in her hands, breath hitching as she struggled against the urge to sob.

 Her chest tightened as gasps for air wracked her body, and she stumbled from the kitchen to her bedroom. The room spun, dark spots flaring in her vision as she knocked over her creams and deodorants from the dresser. Her hands frantically searched through the drawers for her medication.

Freja inhaled deeply several times, but the breaths offered little relief. She was desperate for air. With hands that trembled, she sifted through the chaos, tears clouding her sight and making it difficult to see. She cried out in pain, her voice sounding faint and broken.

At last, she located the medication and gripped it firmly as anguish coursed through her body.

With unsteady hands, she placed two pills in her mouth, feeling them graze her tongue before swallowing. She sat in torment, anticipating the onset of relief. Seconds felt like an eternity.

She collapsed onto the bed as the medication began to take effect, her body sagging under the weight of both physical and emotional suffering.

An overwhelming emptiness remained within her as the pain eased slightly. She buried her face in her hands, allowing silent sobs to shake her shoulders.

Throughout the night, she tossed and turned, the sheets twisting around her in a restless quest for comfort. When dawn finally broke, she discovered tear streaks all over her pillow. Looking in the mirror, she saw that her face was swollen and red, with dark circles beneath her eyes.

Freja packed her belongings and took an early flight home. Clinton had sent the hospital address to her the previous night, so she made her way there immediately.

Clinton sat in a chair in the hospital waiting area, appearing worse than Freja felt. His eyes were swollen and red, as if he had been weeping for hours, and his disheveled look indicated he hadn’t shaven in days.

“Freja,” he spoke, turning to meet her gaze. The shallow, sorrowful expression on his face made her momentarily forget her own pain, and pity washed over her. She quickly turned her gaze to her mother, who stood by the door, looking frail and frightened.

“Mum.” Freja hurried to her and embraced her tightly, tears streaming down her face. “Is it true, Mum? Is it really true, or is this all a prank??” She already suspected the answer, but a part of her needed to hear it. Her tears soaked through her mother’s shirt. Her mother nodded and held her closer.

“Freja, are you taking your medication?” her mother asked, worry evident on her face.

Freja nodded. “Yes, Mum.” Her mother held her tightly, weeping alongside her.

A faint whimper resonated in the room, and Freja quickly identified it as Phillip. Stepping away from her mother, she glanced into the room and found Phillip in the hospital bed, his little eyes brimming with tears. “What happened to him, Mum?” she inquired, her voice quaking as she moved closer to lift him into her embrace.

“My dear, he's suffering from typhoid,” her mother explained, gently stroking Phillip's forehead, worry etched on her face. Freja cradled him softly, murmuring comforting words to ease his distress.

His tiny body slowly unwound, and he ceased crying, reaching out with his small hands to caress her face. She beamed at him, her heart overflowing with love.

“He needs to take his medication now,” she stated, glancing at Clinton, who had appeared behind her.

“But Clinton….” 

He cut her off. “Mr. Blackwood,” he corrected, stepping out with Phillip cradled in his arms.

“He's enduring a lot. Please don’t take it personally.” Her mother comforted her as she followed Clinton.

Freja promptly sent an email to her workplace to explain her need for a few days off before her departure from Paris, making sure everything was taken care of.

Several days later, as Phillip began to heal, they laid Freya to rest. The day was unbearable for Freja, watching as Clinton shed tears for the first time since her sister’s passing. Their mother struggled as well; it marked the burial of her first daughter.

Freja was born just fifteen minutes after Freya, making her younger by that brief interval. While sorrow overwhelmed her for her sister, she had to remain strong for Phillip. The little boy was bewildered, picking up on the heavy atmosphere. After all that had transpired, she needed to gently help him fall asleep.

Once he finally closed his eyes, she carefully placed Phillip on the bed, trying hard not to rouse him. She quietly slipped out of the room, softly shutting the door behind her in hopes that the gentle sound wouldn’t disturb him.

“Hey!! Why are you still here?” Clinton’s voice startled her, nearly causing her to bump into him.

“What do you mean? Clinton, you surprised me,” she replied, placing a hand against her chest.

He stood there with a blank expression, hands in his pockets, appearing disinterested. “You ought to go back to Paris,” he stated indifferently.

“Why?” 

“There’s nothing for you here. The only reason you’re around is because of her passing. It's been days; you can leave now,” he said, making her heart feel heavy.

“I have Mum, Phillip, and...” She hesitated as he arched an eyebrow.

“And what???” he encouraged.

Freja shook her head, battling the ache in her heart.

“Was that why you didn’t inform me about the accident and how critical her condition was? Did you let her go without me knowing?” she finally asked, daring to voice the question that had haunted her.

“After you left, did you ever call to check on her? Did you consider telling her you had arrived? Did you, Freja?? Instead, you just sent a text message and went silent for the rest of the month.” His gaze met hers, filled with a mix of anger and disappointment. His jaw clenched, and his expression grew stern. Freja shook her head, tears spilling down her face.

“I was really exhausted that night, and I sent a message and then fell asleep. The next day, I had work to tend to, and it slipped my mind.”

“I’m really sorry,” she murmured.

“While you were gone, she was battling for her life, thinking you would reach out, but you didn’t. You’ve always been selfish and thoughtless, forgetting your twin sister.”

“Clinton, please,” she implored, her voice thick with emotion. His harsh words struck her heart like a needle, leaving her feeling guilty and wounded, as if she were bleeding from the pain.

“Fine, I understand that you have feelings against me, but you should have cared for your sister. At least, a phone call was necessary,” he retorted, his tone unyielding.

“I don’t despise you, I don’t,” she asserted, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

“You have nothing left, Freja. Just leave.” He said, opening the door to the room. She moved closer, grasping his hand with desperation.

“Please, I want to be here for Phillip,” she urged, holding on to her last glimmer of hope.

“Do not dare!!! I can’t permit you to do the same to my son. You may resemble his mother, but you are not. Phillip and I will be just fine. Just go and continue your mundane life filled with self-pity." He shot back, his eyes icy.

“Please don’t say that. You know I really care for Phillip as if he were my own son. Please,” she pleaded, her voice quivering.

“Just stop all this nonsense! You are different. You are not Freya. Phillip will notice the difference. He has me to look after me, and I won’t let you view him as a burden,” he responded, and she hesitantly pulled her hands from his grip just before he closed the door on her.

As she made her way to the guest room, her thoughts raced with a multitude of emotions. His words had cut deep, and the pain felt intensified coming from him.

She had loved him even before her sister became his wife, but he had never acknowledged her or given her any attention. Since the marriage, she had made herself inconspicuous, attempting to bury her feelings, and now it appeared he resented her for it.

Digging her hands into her pocket, she took out an old photo of her and her sister from childhood, a time when they were inseparable. She looked at it wistfully. “I wish I could go back in time, Freya. I should never have drifte

d so far from you,” she murmured, clutching the picture tightly as tears flowed down her cheeks, eventually crying herself to sleep.