Aurora - Part 15

The makeshift meeting room was located in front of the area where Aurora remained.

A thick pane of glass separated the two spaces.

On the other side, she was exactly as she always was.

Floating.

About half a meter above the floor.

Her body completely motionless.

Her arms hanging loosely.

Her face serene.

Her eyes open.

Looking straight ahead.

She did not seem to be asleep.

She did not seem to be awake, either.

It was difficult to tell.

Aurora was simply there.

Her mother sat down in front of the glass.

The psychologist sat beside her.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

The mother looked at her daughter.

— Is she all right?

The psychologist took a little while to answer.

— Physically, yes.

— Is that all?

— It's difficult to say.

The mother continued looking.

— Is she suffering?

— We have no indication of that.

— Does she feel pain?

— We don't know.

— Is she hungry?

The psychologist looked at Aurora.

— She doesn't eat.

The mother frowned.

— For how long?

— Since it happened.

She fell silent.

— That makes no sense.

— No.

The psychologist glanced at her notes.

— Her body continues to function. She breathes. She has a pulse. Her temperature remains normal. Her tissues are normal. The tests show no signs of deterioration.

— But she doesn't eat.

— No.

— And she doesn't grow weak?

— No.

The mother looked at her daughter again.

— So she simply...

She didn't finish.

The psychologist completed the thought.

— She seems suspended.

The word hung between them.

Suspended.

Not dead.

Not sick.

Not exactly living as she had before.

Just suspended.

Like something unplugged without ceasing to function.

The mother took a deep breath.

— She's so calm.

— Was she always like that?

— Not like this.

The psychologist smiled faintly.

— No?

— No.

She looked at her daughter.

— She was a normal girl.

There was a brief pause.

— Very normal.

The psychologist closed her notebook.

— What was her daily routine like?

The mother began to speak.

— School in the morning. She came home. Did her homework. Sometimes helped around the house. She liked staying in her room listening to music. Watched television. Played on her phone.

She gave a small smile.

— Nothing very interesting.

— What was she like at school?

— A good student.

— An excellent student?

The mother thought about it.

— No. Not excellent.

The psychologist smiled.

— Very good?

— Very good.

They both laughed softly.

— She never had any great ambitions — the mother continued. — She never said she wanted to be famous, travel the world, get rich. Things like that.

— What did she want?

The mother looked at her daughter again.

— I think she just wanted to live.

The psychologist fell silent.

— To live like any other girl.

The mother slowly ran her fingers over her own hand.

— But it was difficult.

— Because of her albinism?

She nodded.

— The children picked on her.

— A lot?

— Quite a lot.

The mother took a deep breath.

— They called her horrible names. Made jokes about her. Sometimes they surrounded her.

— Did she fight back?

— No.

— Never?

— Never.

— Why not?

The mother looked at Aurora.

— Because she was afraid.

The psychologist wrote something down.

— Did she ever hit anyone?

— No.

— Ever threaten anyone?

— No.

— Ever try to get revenge?

The mother almost smiled.

— No.

Then her expression grew serious.

— She just wanted them to stop.

The psychologist lowered her eyes.

On the other side of the glass, Aurora continued looking straight ahead.

Serene.

Motionless.

Floating.

The mother continued:

— Now there are people saying she's a demon.

The psychologist didn't answer.

— Others say she's a saint.

— I know.

— Some people say she's going to destroy the world.

The mother shook her head.

— My daughter didn't even like drawing attention to herself at school.

The psychologist smiled.

— People need to put something inside what they don't understand.

— I know.

Once again, the two women fell silent.

Then the psychologist asked:

— What was she like at home?

— Normal.

— Did she help out?

— Sometimes.

— Did she have friends?

— A few.

— A boyfriend?

The mother smiled.

— No.

— Any crushes?

— Maybe.

They both laughed.

For a few seconds, Aurora's presence seemed distant.

Not because she had disappeared.

But because that conversation could have been taking place between two mothers anywhere in the world.

— My daughter is like that, too — the psychologist said.

The mother looked at her.

— She is?

— Complains about everything.

The mother smiled.

— Then she's normal.

— Very much so.

— Mine, too.

The psychologist looked at Aurora.

— This morning, my daughter didn't want to go to school.

— And you came to work?

— I did.

— And now?

— Today I promised I'd pick her up.

The mother smiled.

— Then keep your promise.

The psychologist laughed.

— I will.

They both looked at Aurora.

On the other side of the glass, she remained exactly as she had been before.

No expression of pain.

No expression of fear.

No hunger.

No fatigue.

Not asking for help.

Not asking for anything.

The mother moved a little closer to the glass.

— She's right there.

— Yes.

— It looks like she's looking at me.

The psychologist looked at Aurora.

— Perhaps she is.

— Do you think she knows I'm here?

The psychologist hesitated.

— I don't know.

The mother nodded.

She didn't seem satisfied.

But she hadn't expected an answer, either.

After a few seconds, she asked:

— Is she going to stay like this forever?

The psychologist looked at Aurora.

Then at the mother.

— We don't know.

The mother took a deep breath.

— So nobody knows anything.

The psychologist gave her a small, sad smile.

— No.

The two remained seated.

Talking about daughters.

About school.

About family.

About little things.

While, behind the reinforced glass, an albino girl remained suspended in the air.

And no one, absolutely no one, knew why.

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