When the time has come, and I am dressed in black, a woman takes my arm, and leads me down the stairs.
A sea of faces, all wearing the same expression – sorrow, stare back up at me.
I clasp my hands together, and thank them breathlessly.
I do my duties well, I am now a grieving wife, I don’t tell anyone else, it’s something I’ve been preparing for my whole life.
I cry at the right times,
A somber stare here and there,
When the guests bid their goodbyes and start to leave, I feel as if I can finally breathe.
The house feels strange, to be in it all alone.
I sit in my chair, and sip at a mug of tea that’s long gone cold.
I know there’s no one else here, but I cannot help but listen for the creek of the stairs.
Waiting, waiting, I sit still in silence, but the sound doesn’t come.
A loneliness fills me, but it doesn’t last long.
I’m preparing dinner for one, when I hear the crack of the belt, and I start to tremble with fear.
I tell myself I’m being silly, to stop my mind playing tricks, but then I hear your laughter, and I start to feel sick.
I tiptoe closer, now at the base of the stairs, I don’t have to see you, to know you are there.
My heart beats fast, my vision foggy, I stumble forward. This can’t be happening,
I pray to God.
Your voice calls my name, breaking the silence, I hold in a scream, my thoughts dart to violence.
I’m out the door in a moment, no looking back,
As long as you’re in there, I’m not coming back.
I run and I run, barefeet on pavement, I arrive at my destination, pale and Shaking.
The soil is damp, and when I dig my bare hands in, fresh earth pulls apart in clumps.
I must have looked like a mad woman, digging wildly in the moonlight, the light dusting of rain falling softly on my curling hair, like snow.
My once white nightgown, was stained brown and green from the dirt and grass , my hands stung as they scratched against sticks and stones in my wild frenzy to uncover the truth so fast.
If someone happened to come across me at that very moment, I would have no suitable answer for what I was doing. But I couldn’t stop digging. Must not stop digging. I needed to know, had to know.
It felt like an enternity until my frozen finger tips brushed up against something solid.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, a mixture of rain and sweat dripping off my chin, onto the plywood box I’d finally uncovered.
I gave a gasp, a cry of relief, and moan of terror.
I scrambled up for the tool, a hammer, all I’d been able to find in a backyard shed I wasn’t used to, but it would do.
It would do.
The thin wood splintered, sending flecks flying through the damp air. I smashed, and smashed, years of anger pouring out, chipping away to reveal what I had been fearing,
The coffin was empty.
I think of the last words Peter murmured to me before the light finally left his eyes.
His hand had taken mine, in a strength he hadn’t possessed for a long time.
Once he had been not so good, a man who took his anger out on everyone else he could,
He had mellowed somewhat in his old age, but inside he was still spiteful, full of evil rage.
His eyes were dark, and bore into me, he spoke each word hauntingly,
“Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.”
I’m wet, and I’m cold, but it’s not the reason the icy chill suddenly fills the night air.
I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence, it’s over powering, over bearing, and it’s every fucking where.
Drowning me, as in life, in his death, I’ve still no escape,
I think about running, but what’s the point?
Instead, I lay my weary and exhausted body down, upon the empty grave.