I raised my voice above the masses and released a triumphant cry. I was radiant; I glowed so bright that the sun was cast into shadow. I walked with a swagger and a sway, I marched on the downbeat, I sung the melody of glory, I danced the steps of liberty and I flew on gilded angel wings.
I flew from the tallest tower and was baptised on my landing.
I am not so strange, bound to my bed in the corner. I am happier than before.
Have sanity and society abandoned me or did I leave them?
Ravaged by age and decades of hard living, you were barely recognisable as you blended in with the others. Your eyes were rheumy, your mouth hung slack and saliva drooled into a pool on your lap.
Once my tormentor and my rapist, you filled me with fear and self loathing; I believed you were omnipotent yet when I saw you in that cheap, run down care home, unloved, stinking of stale urine I saw how little you really were and what nothing you became.
I expect you never thought this is how you would end your days did you, Dad?
In this commune of artists within but still detached from the bustle of Twickenham hides many a curious site, particularly a garden the likes of which you have never seen and may never see again.
A myriad of dismembered dolls lie planted across the uneven earth. Surrounded by brightly coloured plastic flowers, heads rear up from flower pots and limbs leap out at all angles.
Spooky to some, crazy to others, unique all the same. As a student, it was commonplace to creep over in the dead of night and dare each other to visit 'the dolls' house', a challenge only the most courageous of us would accept, though noone would cross the fence lest the fabled witch should catch us. Legend and tales embellished by drunken storytellers told of torture and murder, that each broken doll was representative of a murdered child.
Years pass, fears fade and maturity alongside curiosity compels the need for the truth. In fact Eel Pie Island is a one of a kind showcase for a time long past. The last vestiges of 1960s hedonism remain here with the drunken musicians, artists, theatre and jazz. The welcome you receive is unprecedented as the residents are only too happy to exhibit their work.
I regret not having the opportunity to meet the owner of 'the dolls house'; Rosa Diaz, a renowned costume designer formerly employed by Hasbro (the toy maker). She turned their discarded dolls into something spectacular and in the cold light of day, through the eyes of an adult this garden is just art.
Glimmers of life splint the haze of darkness which has cast my eyes; cracks of laughter pierce the deafening oppression of despair.
I cannot muster motivation to involve myself nor can I respond in any physical manner. I am shunted and buffeted by the dance around me but am not moved from my fixed point.
Engulfed and enveloped in numbness, not sadness nor fear nor hatred. I do not feel, I do not make impact and I fall away unnoticed.
In solitude I reflect, perhaps regret, maybe long for the flame and the fire but remain here in the cold.
I cannot bear your sadness; I can't carry it with me and nurture it as you do. I can't love you and see that love sink into an abyss of sorrow. I can't embrace your bitterness or hold a hand that is always clenched. No warmth can melt the ice in your eyes and no force can penetrate the concrete fortress around your heart.
Nor can I say goodbye, for all the pain I cannot walk away from you or turn my back on the memories of what we were. For every tear I shed for you, for every moment I feel I am about to break there is a second of hope that keeps me here and nourishes my faith.
A violent slap brings me back to consciousness; I force my eyes to focus on the mangled features in front of me. What was once a face is now an acid burned malformation with pits for eyes and crude slits for nostrils. There are no lips and the mouth contains no teeth or tongue, it is just a jagged hole which emits a heavy rasp with each breath.
He gesticulates with a stump of an arm, he motions for me to move then drags me up with his other, well muscled but mutated arm then pushes me forward. I stumble over bracken and protruding roots, reliant on him to guide me.
He pushes me again and points to a gap in the trees through which a corner of navy tarpaulin is just visible. At that he turns and flees back into the freezing fog and I make my way to the tent to find my family sleeping peacefully, unaware that I had been absent.
I was THE malevolent spirit; once I became impassioned by the destructive force of hatred I was unstoppable.
My trademark trick was to imprint my visage on young children's faces as their parents went to kiss them goodnight then repeat every night until those children became rejects. Fathers smothered their sons in their beds, mothers abandoned their cursed daughters in churches or convents. The pain never left their hearts and they became consumed by darkness and sin.
I could break the strongest of bonds and manipulate the most loving family into murderous monsters.
I am the root of all evil.
I only stabbed him because I couldn’t poison him. Literally, it couldn’t be done. I put rat poison in his food for 3 weeks and he didn’t have so much as a stomach ache! Do you get it? Do you see what a fucking nightmare he was? I even had to lock the children in their rooms so they wouldn’t see the mess, he was so fucking messy. I was always cleaning up after him. He cooked well though, the last meal he gave us was a good one. He was so fat that his meat was succulent and tender.
He loved her when she couldn’t love him back but he resented her for it, she couldn’t be comforted or healed and the pressure would have broken him eventually. He blamed himself when he saw the soulless spectre that walked in place of the vivacious beauty he had married; the fiery eyes that could hold anyone’s gaze were now dull and lowered permanently to the floor. With each pill, he remembered her dancing on podiums with carefree abandonment; he looked down at the woman who could barely leave her bed, poured the water into her mouth and kissed her goodbye.
I clamber up to join you whilst clinging fearfully to the rail beside me. Below the police calmly control the crowds of voyeuristic people clamouring to look, half hoping to see you plummet. I stretch to touch your hand but you are just out of reach; I call your name but you don’t acknowledge me. I push myself closer to you, telling you everything will be OK when we both know it isn’t true. “I love you” “You’ll be OK”, empty reassurances intended to calm and soothe you. You turn around, our eyes lock then you are lost to me.
Little by little I watched you close yourself off to the world and I did nothing about it. I waited, hoping it would resolve itself and you would return. I saw it coming, I was complicit in its happening and I cover for you every time. I’m not ignorant of the shoes caked in mud, the clothes that disappear or the car that constantly needs cleaning. On the news a local girl is reported missing and you are suddenly engaged, transfixed, studying her friends and family as they hopelessly appeal for information. A mother always knows. Your mother never tells.
Your Honour, I enjoyed killing him. I don’t feel remorse and I will spend the rest of my days with a song in my heart. Oh yes, I can see his widow and children in the gallery and, yes, I understand that I am due to be punished in the name of Justice. The tabloids will make a monster of me and the public will wish me dead; psychologists will analyse me, doctors will disagree on my diagnosis; I will be despised but I shall be at peace. I haven’t had peace since the day I gave birth to him.
You lie beneath the snow flocked ground, just close enough to reach. I dig with bare hands, scrabble until my nails rip from my fingertips; blood soaks into damp cold earth as I frantically try to find you. Finally a glimpse of dirty pink satin, a shimmer of glitter and a hint of bone peeks out. Relieved, I continue more cautiously revealing you in fragments then finally lift you out. Your party frock is ruined so I dress you in something new, purple this time. I kiss each broken bone before laying you back to rest. Happy Birthday my Angel.
Despair hung like an apron over his heart, shielding him from care and compassion. He trudged through the cover of the night cowering with each lash of the wind and fighting to stay upright when his feet gave way in the mud. Finally he reached the Master’s house and fell to his knees on the stoop; weakly he knocked and crawled inside when the door was opened to him. With trembling fingers he drew the grail from a shabby knapsack and it skittered across the marble floor; the Master snatched it up and inspected it closely before walking hurriedly away.
Dad slept in our greenhouse. It’s not as though he lived there, he came in for his meals, to watch TV and to have a wash but it’s a small house and we have no room for another bed. He couldn’t sleep on the floor, we’d keep tripping over him and it wasn’t fair to make him sleep on a bunk bed with one of the kids on top. He had his privacy out there anyway. We were all incredibly shocked when he died, it was very sudden and we still don’t understand what happened. Doctor said it was pneumonia.
Cowering behind a curtain in a corner she maintained quiet, shallow breaths; any sound would betray her position and she had nowhere left to run. He decimated every room as he rampaged, homing in on her. Tentatively she reached out and felt around, hoping for something to use as a weapon; her fingertips touched something hard and cold, his hand clasped around hers, twisted her arm and dragged her across the carpet. She screamed as the sole of his boot smashed down towards her face and she felt the blood gurgle in her throat silencing her once and for all.
Words That Can Never Be Spoken
Your very first breath was your last; I held my breath in the hope that I could hold the last of your life if I didn’t exhale. I cried tears enough to swell the ocean as I willed warmth into your algid form. I felt my hands caress you, my arms embrace you and my body bury you as though I could unite our bodies once again and feel your heart beat inside me. For one brief moment I was the one thing that I will never be called. Mum.
We watered the ground with our grief as your tiny pink coffin was engulfed by the earth; we scattered baby’s breath and heather before you were buried beneath the mounds and bracken covered the disturbance. Pain and misery will never blight you again. Your spirit remains in the tranquillity of the woodland, your voice will be heard in the morning birdsong and your touch will be felt in the gentle strokes of the wind. You will grow as nature grows around you, you will play as the deer frolic between the trees and you will rise to kiss the sunlight.
