Last week,on the morning of my 24th birthday, I woke up screaming. I’d been dreaming about my neighbour, my lovely, gentle neighbour. I dreamt that she was being savagely murdered. The sounds of her screams still echoing in my mind, bleary eyed,dry mouthed and confused I stumbled to the bathroom. Filled my mouth with water from the tap. Swirled it around and spat it out. It tasted weird, sickly sweet. I’d been eating chocolate before I went to bed so I assumed it was from this. Chocolate causes nightmares too, right?
I’d met Carolyn when I moved here, 200 miles away from home, to pursue my career as a vet. That first night as I was settling down to Eastenders, missing my mum whom I’d always watched it with before, feeling so alone in the world, she’d knocked on my door. Holding out a bottle of Prosecco she welcomed me to the neighbourhood. I didn’t want to invite her in, I didn’t plan to be here for too long and I wanted to keep my head down. Not make bonds. Make it easier to move on in three years time when my apprenticeship was up. But she lingered, obviously expecting an invite in. I couldn’t be rude, so in she came. I rustled in a box, still not unpacked having only moved in that day after a 200 mile drive. I knew I had some nice glasses somewhere, but I couldn’t find them. I pulled out some,plates,bowls, paper cups during my search through the box. Frustrated as I was that I couldnt get rid of her, Mum had always taught me to be polite to guests. I knew I couldn’t turn her away.
As I got to the bottom of the box and came up empty handed and frustrated, there she stood. Soppy grin on her face, two paper cups full of Prosecco. Handing me one she said “Come on, Eastenders will be over by the time you’ve found the glasses, and I really want to know what happens” I laughed, took a cup and led the way back into the lounge. We perched on my settee, more not yet unpacked boxes used as footrests, supped Prosecco and watched Eastenders in a companionable silence, well, apart from our synced laughter and gasps at the appropriate scenes.
Afterwards I thought she’d go home, but she grabbed my paper cup from my hands, refilled both from the Prosecco bottle, and started to talk. She told me all the local gossip, the good places to go in the neighbourhood and then all about herself. And, try as I did to stay distant, I found myself laughing, beginning to thaw. At the end of the evening when she left I felt the beginnings of that warm glow of friendship. But closing the door to her I reminded myself, don’t get close, you’re moving on in 3 years, you don’t need anything to complicate it. I resolved that despite the fun we’d had, I’d keep my distance.
She had other ideas and the next day, as the familiar duh duh duh duh duh started, there was once again a knock on my door. This time, when I opened it, Carolyn was standing there, white wine in one hand, two cut crystal glasses in the other. I thought about telling her I was on my way out until I realised I had changed into my pyjamas. Remembering my mum, droning on about always being polite, I had no choice but to invite her in.
Again, we sat and watched Eastenders,laughing together and even shedding a shared tear. Then we talked and talked some more, I started to open up a bit about myself. By 2am when were both struggling to keep our eyes open, my fate was sealed. I cared about her. That was the start of our friendship and ever since then we’d been inseparable. Every evening, just as the theme tune started, there she’d be. We laughed together, cried together, drunk together and often ate together. We were non romantic soul mates.
My apprenticeship passed all too quickly. Soon the three years were over and I knew I had to move on. But, then Covid hit. It wasn’t the right time to find a job as everywhere was shutting down, working on reduced staff. Even vet practices had to make do with the staff they already had, and as for getting a removals company to come into my house, deal with my stuff, forget it. No, the country was locked down and that meant I was stuck where I was. I couldn’t say I was too upset, it would all be over in a year, and then I could move. And another year living next door to Carolyn was a bonus, Ireallydid careabouther. Almost too much. Despite lockdown, we created a bubble (even before we were legally allowed to) and continued our evening boozy meetups. We’d often have dinner together too. For some strange reason though, maybe tradition, it was always at my house, or occasionally, on none Eastenders nights, the local bar. I’d never once been to Carolyn’s house,although we held spare keys for each other, in case of emergency. We shared the costs, she’d provide the alcohol one night, I’d get it the next. She’d pay for a takeaway, or I’d cook for us. It was all done fairly, although we weren’t worried too much about your turn, my turn, it was just the routine we fell into.
Anyhow, obviously covid hadn’t buggered off within a year, and here in the UK things still aren’t totally right. So, despite growing twitchy to move on, I’m still here. Perhaps I’m making excuses and the fact is I can’t bear the thought of moving away from Carolyn.
This nightmare I’d just awoken from was horrific. I’d been standing in her room, looking down at her purple and white striped duvet. Her red curtains blowing in the breeze from her half open window. I noticed the time on the clock was 3.57am. There was a half drunk glass of water beside her bed, and the silly romance novel she was reading was open, face down on the pillow beside her. It was all so peaceful. Suddenly she’d been ripped from her bed, her head jerked back at an unnatural angle. Her throat slit with a razor blade and her sickly sweet blood spurting forth in a bizarre crimson geyzer.
I know why I’d dreamt this, it was the same way my mum had been murdered, exactly 6 years ago to the day. Just before I moved here and although this was the one thing about myself I hadnt told Carolyn,I often had flashbacks to that awful night. Waking up at 4.30am to a house silent, no trace of her incessant snoring. Creeping along the corridor worried, telling myself I was being stupid. Peeping into her room quietly so as not to wake her. Even in the dark I could see something was not right. There was suffocating silence. A sickly sweet smell. Heart beating I’d reached for the light, flicked it on, and then screamed as I took in the scene before me. Her body lay crumpled on the floor, her head bent back at an unnatural angle. A gaping wound across her neck, dribbling the last bits of blood down her neck. She’d obviously bled more before I got there as there was blood spattered up the walls, over her bed, even on the ceiling for Christ sake. Dad, hearing my screams, had come rushing in (he’d taken to sleeping in the spare room, as much as he loved her, he couldn’t sleep through her torrential snoring).
The rest of that night is a blur. I can remember police, paramedics, crime scene photographers, forensics I think. Somebody made me a cup of tea, though they must have put about 10 sugars in, it was sickly sweet. That’s what they do for shock isn’t it?
The next couple of weeks were untenable, we organised Mums funeral and got through it, somehow. I held my Dad up in the funeral parlour when we went to say our last goodbyes, somehow. I read a speech at her funeral, somehow. I stayed strong, somehow. I tuned out what had happened, somehow. The week after the funeral when we had time to breathe, I sat down to watch Eastenders again. But it was wrong. My Mum, my best friend, wasn’t there with her sarky remarks. Wasn’t there telling Stacey to pull herself together, calling Kat a ‘strumpet in a mini skirt’ . I was alone. I couldn’t do it without my Mum.
The next week, I was accepted on this apprenticeship and couldn’t wait to move away. I knew my uncle would watch out for my Dad, but I needed that fresh start. I couldn’t go on with the grief gnawing away at me every second of every minute of everyday. I’d lost the most important person in my life and I’d lost myself. I vowed I’d never get close to anybody again. The pain was too much. I promised myself I’d concentrate on my career, make Mum proud, and move on every 3 years, before I could lay down roots, before I could make friends. I wasn’t counting on meeting Carolyn, on letting my defences down so soon. Funny how life works out.
Looking at my clock I realised it was now 4.45am. I had to be up for work in 1.5 hours, there was no point going back to sleep, and besides I was far too shaken up. I ran myself a hot bubble bath and lay back in the water, trying to let go of the tension. Trying not to drown in sorrow. The ugly scenes of the nightmare playing over and over in my mind. I couldn’t relax.
That evening, as the familiar theme tune started to play, I went to open the door for Carolyn. Except, she hadn’t knocked. It was automatic pilot by this stage. I looked across at her house but the front door was still closed. She’s running late, I thought, she’ll be here any second, and I went back in, leaving the door open for her. As the episode started, she still hadn’t arrived. I was starting to get twitchy, last nights dream still firmly on my mind, but told myself not to be stupid. By the start of the Duff Duff’s however, when she still hadn’t arrived, I really was worried. I pulled my dressing gown around my shoulders, remembering all the times she’d gently mocked me for being in my pj’s so early “imagine if there’s an emergency” she used to say. “Pah,” I’d laugh, “I don’t know anyone around here who could have an emergency, apart from you, and you’re always here”. Tramping across the lawn outside our houses I hammered on her door “Oi, have you fallen asleep in there? You’ve missed Stenders you dozy mare, oh and have you forgotten its my bloody birthday?! ….”I hammered again, but there was no reply. Odd I thought, really starting to panic now, the scenes from my nightmare replaying over and over. Trying to calm myself down I pondered that she may have been caught at work. She was a social worker and often was late finishing if she was working on a big case, or some emergency came in, although she always texted me, and she hadn’t yet missed Eastenders. I pulled my phone out of my dressing gown pocket, just to check I’d not missed a text. I hadn’t. Opening my contacts list I started dialling her number, expecting her to answer and laugh at me, telling me I was panicking about nothing.
She never left her phone behind. I used to joke it was superglued to her hand. She rarely used it when we were together but she never ever forgot it, and always knew EXACTLY where it was. Then I heard the uplifting beat and the joyful lyrics of ‘Reach for the Stars’ her bloody annoying ringtone. Spinning around thinking she must be behind me, I was met by an empty driveway. Then I realised the song was coming from above me. I looked up to see red curtains blowing through the half open window of her bedroom and realised it was coming from there. Well, then I really DID panic. Like I said she never left her phone behind. Ever.
Sprinting back to my house I grabbed her spare key, I hesitated for barely a minute before putting it into her lock. Like I said, I’d never been in her house. It hadn’t seemed odd to me before, it was just how we did things, but a sudden thought hit me, what if there was a reason? What if there was something she didn’t want me to see. Was I invading her privacy? But then I thought back to the site of her in my dream last night. And I knew I had to check. Knew whatever I did she’d forgive me.
Her house was set out like mine, so I knew exactly how to get to her bedroom, where the phone was playing its cheery popsong as I tried to call her again, to warn her I was coming, even as I bounded up the stairs two at a time.
Bursting through the door, I knew exactly what I’d see, even as I took in the macabre scene. Her body was crumpled on the floor, her head pulled back at an unnatural angle. Blood crusted around the gaping hole in her throat. Blood coated her walls, her ceiling, her purple striped duvet. It had even entered her water cup, sitting half empty on her bedside table, tinting the water a peony pink. The only thing that wasn’t blood covered, somehow, was the romance novel which was lying open face down on her pillow.
I fell to my knees besides her, pulled her cold, stiff body towards me and cried, and cried. Bloody covid. I knew I shouldn’t have let her in. I knew I should have moved. I was a selfish bitch and now the best person in the whole world, the person closest to me, my best friend, was dead again.
As I cried, I flashed back to the first time I’d faced a scene like this. It hadn’t been my mum, although that’s all I’d remembered up until now. That had happened when I was 18. No, this had all started long before then.
It was my 6th birthday, I woke up early and rocketed down the stairs. Just a little kid I was excited to open my presents, to be the centre of attention. I burst through the living room door, expecting cries of happy birthday. Oh, I was greeted by cries alright. Cries of pain. My Scoot, my best friend in all the world, my loyal and loving spaniel, didn’t bounce up at me as expected. I was so confused. I remember my Mum pouring me a glass of milk. I can remember the sickly sweet taste of it as she sat across the table and told me how Scoot had passed away peacefully in the night. I cried then, I cried like I’d never cried before. My Scoot, my protector. He’d always been there he couldn’t be gone. He’d looked after me ever since I can remember. Greeting me in the morning, sitting in the window waiting for me when i got home. Always by my side, when I wasn’t at school. Mum and Dad tried to comfort me, telling me he’d passed while asleep and hadn’t suffered. I was glad it had been quick but he was still gone. I cancelled my party that year, didn’t open any presents for at least 2 months. Cried myself to sleep for weeks. But, I was a child, and in time, I moved on. Pestered mum and dad for a cat.
For my 7th birthday Mum handed me a basket. I opened it and out popped a ginger head. A fluffy ginger head that was Mewling softly. For the second year on the trot, I cried over my birthday breakfast but this time from joy. I named her Hope and I fell in love. She was there for me when I fell out with my best friend. I cried into her fur at 10 years old when I was being bullied. At 11 when I moved to senior school, fell in love for the first time and had my heart broken for the first time, it was Hope I clung to. Holding her through the long nights when I could not sleep, telling her all my worries and teenage angst.
Then, on my 12th birthday, a very similar scene to that of my 6th. Hope was gone. Passed peacefully in her sleep. This time, I didn’t quite believe it. Especially when I took the rubbish out to find the bin full of bloodied rags. But Mum and Dad refused to tell me anything. They stuck to the story that she’d passed away in her sleep, and my childish brain eventually led me to believe them. It was easier, hurt less.
At 15, when I wanted to go out with friendsafter school, I was never allowed. My parents suggested I bring my friends home with me instead. I did so a couple of times, but both times Dad started acting very strange. He’d come in hollering and swearing (normally he never raised his voice) gesticulating wildly and terrified my friends, so much so that they wanted nothing more to do with me and my crazy family. Word got around at school that my Dad had lost the plot, and I was alienated and bullied. This is why, by age 18, my mum was my best friend and we’d spend most evenings watching Eastenders. Until, until my 18th birthday and we didn’t anymore. I vowed never to get close to anyone ever again. Losing them was too painful. If I only stayed in one place for 3 years max I could avoid making bonds. But then, Carolyn came along. And then Covid came along. And I’d failed, I’d got close.
Now, here I was on my 24th birthday, and it had happened again. My best friend. Gone. And I knew things I couldn’t possibly know. I knew what the inside of her bedroom looked like. I’d dreamt this exact thing happening. It was a dream, wasn’t it? How could it have been a dream? How could it NOT have been a dream. I lay there on the tloor cradling Carolyn, crying and occasionally turning my back to vomit, for what felt like hours. Had I done this?
Eventually I got up and called the police. They arrived in less than 5 minutes, declared the house a crime scene, and chucked me out. I wandered back to my house across our lawns, trapped inside my head. It was impossible. Impossible. Carolyn was gone, impossible. I felt like I’d done it. Impossible. Everyone I loved the most. Gone. Impossible.
As I entered through my front door, the landline was ringing. I picked it up to hear my Dad’s voice wishing me a happy birthday. But he sounded weird. His voice was a mix of cold blooded fear and hope. Forced celebration and pain, trepidation and wariness. And then I knew. He knew what was happening. He could explain it. I yelled at him , “Dad, tell me what’s happening to me “ before bursting into tears, I managed to choke out the words, “Carolyn….dead…..me” before collapsing into a heap, and losing myself to the tears. He stayed on the phone to me and when I’d regained a modicum of composure he spoke again. His voice had changed. It sounded resigned. Resigned and guilty. “Listen to me. We need to talk. I can’t do it over the phone. I’m coming to you OK? Sarah, I’m coming to you. Sarah,OK?” I managed to wheeze out a faint “ok”. “Don’t leave the house, don’t do anything, until I get there. I’ll get the first flight I possibly can” “OK dad. OK.” And I hung up.
His flight got in yesterday morning.We spent the whole day talking. Now I know a lot more. And I wish I didn’t.
Mum and Dad had been together for 10 years, married for 7 and trying for a baby for 6.5. It didn’t happen. Mum wanted to go to the doctor and be investigated, but Dad is hyper religious and believes if its meant to happen it will happen, and refused to go. Doing research online one day, mum found a fertility spell. She showed Dad, who claimed it was the work of the Devil and wanted nothing to do with it. Mum was desperate. She wanted a baby so very much, she had so much love to give and was ready to do anything. Aware of Dad’s beliefs though, she agreed to let it rest.
Then, one hot June, her period was late. Hardly daring to hope, and not wanting to tell Dad in case it was a false alarm, she went to the local chemist and bought a pregnancy test. She snuck home while Dad was at work, peed on a stick and waited. Those 2 minutes were the longest of her life. Staring at the white stick in her hand, she began to shake. She couldn’t look away, so she watched as first one pink line, and then another appeared in front of her eyes. It was like a magic trick.
She was both ecstatic and terrified. Not daring to believe it and still not wanting to tell Dad, she returned to the pharmacy but this time she bought a digital one. At the end of another excruciating 2 minutes she hardly dared look, but when she did, it was positive. That night she cooked Dad Liver and chips, his favourite meal, and broke the news. They were both over the moon and danced around the kitchen, holding each other and crying.
After her works Christmas do in the middle of December, she had a twinge of pain in her stomach. Too much rich food tonight she thought, settling into bed. She managed to get to sleep but was woken up a couple of hours later, the pain increased ten fold. Nudging Dad awake, they rushed to hospital. She gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, he was perfect. Because he was so early he was rushed to NICU. Everything was looking bright and after a week Mum was allowed to get him out of the incubator for a quick cuddle. The next day, however, he caught a horrific infection and though they fought to save him he passed away on Christmas Eve in Mums arms.
As Dad sat on my settee telling me this he was blank faced. Almost like he’d had to check out from reality to face the memories. The tears ran down my face though, I’d known loss, and it bloody hurt, how on earth did Mum and Dad get through this? I thought, but it must have slipped out of my mouth as Dad blinked at the disruption and with a frown replied “We very nearly didn’t” before continuing his devastating story.
We came home, empty handed the next day. Thankfully we had not had time to put the Christmas decorations up, as we didn’t feel at all festive. Mum took herself immediately to the half decorated nursery, sat on the floor cuddling the little blue rabbit we’d bought for him the day we found out it was a boy. She didn’t cry, didn’t speak, didnt eat or drink. She sat there, still and silent, cuddling that blasted rabbit for a straight 27 hours. Growing concerned Dad had called the doctor who had prescribed some sleeping pills. Mum took 2, and fell into a deep sleep, still there, on the nursery floor, blue rabbit held to her chest.
She slept for 12 hours, and woke up with a scream, the likes of which Dad had never heard before. Then, the tears came. And once the tears came, they didn’t stop. Dad eventually was able to get close enough to hold her, and they lay on the floor, for goodness knows how long, holding each other, their tears making the bunny sodden.
Mum was then like a zombie, for months. She barely ate, lost a lot of weight, the few words she muttered to Dad were delivered in a voice devoid of any type of emotion. There were no more tears. Blue Rabbit became her best friend, she was never seen without him. Days were intolerable, but night times were worse. Despite the sleeping medication from the Doctor, she’d wake up two or three times a night, screaming. It was during this time too, Dad told me, that she began to snore.
Then, one night, she woke up at 3am, sat bolt upright but didn’t say a word. Dad tried to talk to her, but it was like she couldn’t hear him.
After 30 minutes of this, she smiled, taking Dad aback, and then, there was a knock on the front door. Dad jumped so hard he knocked his head on the bedpost and in the few seconds in took him to orient himself Mum was already half way down the stairs, her eyes, which had been dead for so long, sparkling.
Knock knock. It took me a minute to realise that was my front door. I’d been lost in Dad’s story. Rubbing at my eyes with my hands I got up shakily off the settee and went to open it. Outside stood a policeman.
“Good evening Miss Tianik. I’m the investigating officer in the murder of Miss Carolyn Moffat. I’d like to ask you to accompany me to the station to answer some questions”
I was released later that day, and Dad was there to pick me up. He’d hired a car. I was shaken, the police had been hard on me, treating me like a suspect. I was terrified they were right. But I’d loved her, I wouldnt have, I couldn’t have, harmed her. Even now, I could barely believe she’d gone.
“Who was at the door Dad?” I asked in trembling voice. I almost didn’t want to know.
“That was the weird thing” he answered me, almost in a whisper. “I couldn’t see anyone”.
He went on to describe how Mum had stood at the door, in her pyjamas, smiling, and listening to something he could not hear. Unnerved he stepped forward to close the door, but Mum had glared at him. A look that said don’t you dare, and he’d automatically stepped back again. Turning back to the door Mums smile had slowly faded. She was now throwing in the occasional ‘But.. ‘ ‘we can’t…’ ‘no…’ but everything she’d started to speak, she’d go silent again as if she’d been interrupted. This went on for what seemed like forever, but could only actually have been 20 minutes, and then Dad heard her say “yes, of course I want a baby,more than anything”, a pause, a frown which turned into a smile and an ‘ok’ then she stretched out her arm, the arm in which she was cradling blue rabbit, let go of him and watched him fall to the floor, smiled, and then closed the door and returned to bed. Shaken, confused and with a pounding headache from the knock on the headboard Dad followed her.
The next day, Mum woke up with a smile and leapt out of bed with a spring in her step. Dad questioned her about the night before, but every attempt was met with a “later dear, I’ll tell you later, we’ve got things to do”. She ate a nice big breakfast with a smile on her face, got herself dressed and even put on make-up and then nagged Dad into coming shopping with her.
At the ship. She picked up a soft pink cat. Dad continued to ask her, but she continued to say, “shush dear, I’ll tell you later, things to do you know” in a sing songy voice.
That evening, she popped a bottle of champagne, and they polished it off between them, before going to bed and for the first time in over a year, she seduced him. Lying there ,after the deed was done, Dad asked her what on earth had been going on all day, and this time she simply replied “Things are going to be better, it’s all going to be OK, don’t worry my darling” Dad was evidently worried but after that, whenever he tried to ask her anything about the night before, she’d start getting that sad look in her eyes again. Enjoying having his old, happy wife back, Dad was scared to say anything more and push her back to that dark place again, so, worried though he was, he stopped asking.
After 6 weeks, over a lazy Sunday breakfast, Mum suddenly said “Darling, I’m pregnant “ Dad was shocked to the core, ecstatic and terrified, and oh so confused. “What, what do you mean” he stuttered. “You know, pregnant, we’re going to have a baby”.
Aware of what had happened last time, Dad couldn’t get too excited this time, he was mainly terrified. Mum, on the other hand was beaming, in fact she was glowing, and she was so much more relaxed than she had been last time, although Dad didn’t understand he was still too scared of losing his wife to push her with any questions. At 4 months, Mum started to show, so they had to tell everybody. Dad had wanted to keep it quiet until after the 6 months, but realised as her bump grew every day, they couldn’t. At 6 months, Dad says, he was so terrified by last time he barely dared breathe, but 7 months came, and then 8. All the scans were perfect, it was going to be a little girl. On exactly her due date Mum went into labour, and I was born after just 3 hours. It had been an easy pregnancy, and an even easier birth. The first thing Dad noticed about me were my unusual blue eyes. He’d seen that blue somewhere before but he couldn’t remember where. They discharged us all the next day and I came home. The first thing Mum did was present me with the soft pink kitten she’d bought all those months ago. And then Dad twigged. My eyes. They were the exact same colour as the blue rabbit had been. How strange.
Everything should have been perfect, but sometimes when she didn’t know he was watching, Dad would catch Mum looking at me with a mixture of terror and pain in her eyes. If he asked what was wrong he was told not to be silly, everything was perfect, that look would disappear.
Mum never took me to baby class. She waited until I absolutely had to go to school before she let me out of her sight. She tried to discourage me from making friends, telling me Scoot would be waiting for me after school, so I had to come home immediately. I was not allowed to play outside, or bring anyone home after school.
When I said Scoot was my best friend, I meant he was my only friend. Mum made sure of that. I had lots of toys and books, but Mum and Dad were somewhat absent in my early years. I could have been lonely, missed my parents, missed company my own age, but I had Scoot. Scoot played with me, Scoot loved me, Scoot became my only companion. I didn’t know any different, so I didn’t want anything more. Then, came my 6th Birthday.
Suddenly, the car came to a halt. Dad stopped talking and turned to me. He’d gone very pale. I looked at him, wondering why he’d stopped, and realised we were home. Wow, that journey had gone quickly.
We got out of the car, I gazed at Carolyn’s house sadly, tears collecting in the corners of my eyes, before hurriedly turning around and walking into my house. I made Dad a cup of tea and poured myself a cold drink. I told Dad I was going to have a shower, I was still in yesterday’s clothes after a night at the police station and as much as I wanted to hear the rest of Dad’s story, of MY story, I also wanted 10 minutes of feeling normal, and to slip into my comfy pyjamas. Much to my chagrin Dad reached out a hand, touched my arm and said “No, please let me finish or I don’t think I can.” So, we sat down again on the settee and he started to talk again.
The night of my sixth birthday, after I’d cried myself to sleep, Mum became inconsolable. Dad, assuming it was because of Scoot, reached out to comfort her, but she wouldn’t let him anywhere near. “It’s me, it’s my fault, oh what have I done?” She choked out between sobs. Confused, Dad knew that this time he had to press her. He’d been the one to find Scoot that morning, and couldn’t clear his mind of the sight of blood. Of the dog lying there with a sliced neck. “What do you mean it’s you? Did you do that to Scoot?” “Yes” sobbed Mum. “No! I mean YES, yes I did. Oh I thought I could avoid it, I thought I could change things. Oh what have I done?” Even more confused than before she’d answered Dad made her sit down beside him. Holding her hand, he waited for the sobs to abate.
Eventually with one last sniff, Mum stopped and was able to talk again. What she said chilled Dad to his very core.
“I, I, I can’t”, he stuttered then. “Go, go and have your shower.”
“Like I could shower now Dad. Tell me, you have to tell me. Did Mum kill Scoot?”
“No. No she didn’t.” A horrible pause then while Dad collected his thoughts, caught his breath.
“No, she didn’t. You did”
“WHAT?”
I yelled, feeling the bile rising at the back of my throat. “I didn’t, I didn’t, I couldn’t”
Even as I said it though, I had a horrible flashback, I was standing, little 6 year old me, was standing in the kitchen,bare feet cold on the stone tiles, all alone except for Scoot, my Scoot, his blood tickling my cold toes. A sickly sweet taste clogging my lips.
I ran to the kitchen, vomited in the sink. Sweat mixing with tears to create rivers over my cheeks. I vomited, and vomited until I was empty, and then stumbled back to the living room where I found Dad still sat in the same position, waiting for me. I took a long swig of my water and he continued.
“Oh sweetheart, I lived in dread of the day I had to tell you this”.
He’d continued pressing Mum that evening, ravenous for answers, answers he should have got six years ago.
“What she told me, that night, still gives me nightmares”
“That night, you remember, the night she finally smiled, there hadn’t been nobody at the door. Not like I thought. I’d thought she was losing her mind, I wish she’d been losing her mind.
He explained how she’d described seeing a tall cloaked man, dressed all in black, hood pulled over his face. “A stench of death and a voice like the night wind” he’d told her he could see how she hurt, how she didn’t want to go on anymore, how empty her heart felt. He’d promised her he could make it better. At first, she hadn’t believed him. Nobody could make this pain go away. Too many people had tried. Before she could say this though he’d made her an offer that took her breath away. “I can give you a baby” her heart had leapt, but she still didn’t quite believe him. “I can. I can give you a beautiful baby girl. She’ll be born on time, and she’ll be perfect, absolutely perfect” mum’s heart had lifted, could he, could he really? She wanted so badly, but she couldn’t quite believe it. Until he showed her me. He showed her her tummy growing, my birth, my beautiful blue eyes. The pictures in her head became so vivid, so real, he could, he really could. I can give you this baby he said, but there are conditions. First, you’ll have to say out loud to me that you want a baby. Then you’ll have to give me that blue rabbit. This is where Mum had first protested, she wasn’t quite ready to give up that last link to her son. So, he’d planted more images in her mind. Her first steps, playing together on a golden beach. Apparently, she’d been able to smell me.
Ready to hand over the blue rabbit, after all if she had her beautiful baby girl what use was a blue rabbit? His next words had chilled her to the bone. “There is one more condition. A payment if you like…” Every six years, on my birthday, I’d have to kill the person in my life closest to me. I’d have to kill them and drink their blood as it spurted from their body. Mum was ready to refuse then. I couldn’t bring up a monster, she thought. Reading her thoughts he went on to reassure her “She would be a wonderful child, a happy child. She’d be loving and giving, and she wouldn’t remember. Not unless she has to kill the one person in this life she is bonded with already. Her soul mate. Then, she’ll start to remember. But, the chances of her meeting her soul mate are slim. Very slim indeed. She’s likely to live her life in blissful ignorance, you’ll have your daughter and she’ll live a happy and healthy life. Unburdened by the guilt. It’s a win win.” Mum had thought hard then, but she was desperate,so desperate, too desperate. Blinded by grief, this faint hope helped her start to see again. So, she agreed. Told him that of course she wanted a baby. More than anything, that’s ALL she wanted. Handed over the rabbit. “It’s done” he said. Turned his back and started walking back down the garden path. Well, Mum was ecstatic, she believed it 90% but didn’t quite believe it, until out shopping the next day, she’d slipped to the toilet and done a test. This time she didn’t have to wait two minutes. Two pink lines appeared immediately.
After she’d told him all this, Dad laughed. “You’re crazy darling, she’s our miracle baby but she could never hurt anyone, least of all Scoot”
Mum told him, but don’t you see, she did. What else do you think happened to him? Dad had concocted a whole story which got much better with reality. “Sweetheart, this is hard to say, I think you BELIEVE your dream from that night. I think subconsciously you were scared of losing her, so you killed Scoot yourself. Don’t worry, this isn’t your fault. First thing tomorrow we’ll call you a psychiatrist. I think you need help. I love you and I’m going to get you that help. We’ll get through this.”
Mum had insisted it was real, until Dad made a very good point.
“Person. He said person. She’d murder the PERSON in her life closest to her. Don’t you see, Scoot is a dog. Not a person.”
Mum’s insistence began to wave at this until she realised they’d never given me a chance to get close to a person. She’d deliberately kept me from getting close to a person. Scoot was the only one it applied to, and besides, he basically was a person in my heart. A bit more thing and frying and Dad managed to cast enough doubt in her mind that she agreed to talk to a psychiatrist.
After a year of talking to this psychiatrist though, she was still adamant. I’d been asking for a cat, I couldn’t face the thought of replacing Scoot with another dog, but I’d begun to get lonely. Dad, at the end of his tether, came up with a plan. They’d get me a cat for my birthday present. On the night of my 12th birthday Dad would sit up all night with mum, he’d watch her. When nothing happened to the cat, because she hadn’t had the chance to do anything, she’d see. She’d have to realise. In the meantime she could continue getting psychiatric help. Mum, desperate for him to believe her, accepted this plan, so long as he helped her prevent me from getting close to any person. The night finally came and Dad stuck to his word. He didn’t let her out of his sight, even following her to the toilet. The next morning, of course, the cat was dead.
Dad had no choice but to believe her now, and wanted to get his priest involved. He thought I was possessed. Mum point blank refused, terrified that if I didn’t stick to the deal I’d disappear and she’d lose another child. They agreed though, no more pets. By the time I was 14, I was lonely again and slipping into depression. Evenings were spent in my bedroom doing homework and watching TV. There was no escape from the boredom of my life. Mum caught me trying to overdose one day and decided something had to change. She decided to start spending more time with me, but keep her distance, not become emotionally close. Except, I was a hormonal teenager starved of human company, and she was my mum and loved me. We soon became close despite all her attempts not too, she became my favourite person. And then, I turned 18.
So now I knew. And now you know. I am the monster under your bed. I am inherently evil. I don’t deserve to be alive. Not when Carolyn is dead.
I could go to jail, but what if I make a friend in there? No, there’s only 1 solution to this. When Dad goes home, his plane is booked for next week, I will eradicate myself.
I would love to believe I’ll find Scoot, and my cat, and my Mum and most importantly Carolyn. I would love to believe in that.
But I don’t.
I know, 100%, I’ll be going straight to hell.