Mad Woman

Onward. Onward and out, breaking surface, breaking even, and—

Mad woman. No one likes a mad woman. 

Moonlit silk strung together by the thine of song, and whispering, whispering, SCREAMING! Limericks, long forgotten. 

The hem of my soaked dress drags against wilting lavender stock. 

Mad woman. No one likes a mad woman. 

I let my imagination run wild, fully knowing what I am seeing and what I am not seeing. 

Behind me, the lake, where sorrows and secrets can rest. 

In front of me, the meadow, its flowers painted in muted monotones. 

It was so beautiful here, once. 

Onward. Onward and out.  

I reach my hands deep into my pockets and turn over the stones lying there. They feel good in my palms. Heavy, like the weight of worry.

I lose track of time all the time.

My head never hurts anymore, but it's strange, I can still feel the ache. Or rather, the absence of ache.

There’s a difference between pain and the memory of pain. But whatever this is, whatever I feel, it’s endless. 

Like my love for him. 

Where will I go now that he has left me? Has he left me? I can’t recall. Please help, can someone please—

I walked with him here once before, hand in hand, on a night just like this one. 

That's how I ended up here, at Henson Park. It’s why I won’t leave, can’t leave, help me, I want to leave—  

Not until he finds me. If he ever will. 

Autumn twilight trails rather than bludgeons.

These days are threaded, sewed shut with a fabric from long ago, yet one thing remains untouched, unscathed. 

Her.

I’ll kill her. 

Or, I’ll kill her and take her voice, too, like that little mermaid. Only, she’s not a good girl and I’m not a witch. I could be though, if I wanted to. 

I remember now, pieces of it, like an early morning fog finally clearing, banished by morning sunstream. 

Yes. I remember now. 

Marcel. 

Marcel and I. 

Marcel and her. 

Marcel and her. Marcel and her. Marcel and—

Mad woman. No one likes a mad woman. 

I walk forward where woods meet meadow, and look back over my shoulder. My blue dress snagged, caught on a thistle of bushes. I clutch the front of my dress and pull, pull, pull. I hear it, a tear. 

A tear in my heart.

It’s quite alright if silk rips, snags, tears, rips— it’s so fragile, anyway. We’re all so fragile, like little glass birds.

Some bones were made to break. 

It’s quite alright if silk rips, so long as I keep moving onward. Onward and out. 

The crooked path, caked with dead leaves, curves up ahead out of sight. When I round the corner, my eyes fall upon a small, white creature. 

A hare. A hare standing in the middle of the path. 

We eye each other for some time, its nose twitching. I feel the need to touch it. It’s been so long since I last held something with a heartbeat. 

I miss that. A connection. A connection of any kind, like mine with

Marcel. 

I move forward, slowly, until the hare and I are just a few feet apart. 

When I’m close enough I reach down, my fingertips grazing the top of its little body. It stiffens under my touch and I can hear its heartbeat quicken by the second. I worry I will frighten it to death. 

I know what such fear feels like. 

Because of Marcel. 

Marcel and her. 

Marcel and her were in my house. She wore my clothes. He spilled his scotch when I found them. My heart was beating, racing, pounding, loud, LOUD, like the heart of this hare right here. I was so—

Mad woman. No one likes a mad woman. 

I step over the hare, letting it be, and enter a large grassy field. The full moon hangs in the sky like an ornament, suspended in a silver silence. 

I am not alone here. 

In the center of the field two people lay side by side on a blanket, like two peas in a pod. They’re giggling and gazing at one another, underneath the starlight. When he turns, when I get to see his face, everything floods back, like the rush and shock of river water. 

Marcel. 

Marcel and her. 

Another laugh. His lips brush her neck.

Her head is turned, I can’t see her face, but as I move towards the blanket I wonder if she knows me. 

If she doesn’t, soon she’ll know me very well.

I stop when I’m just a few feet from them. The grass beneath my feet remains very still, the trees hush their whispers, and it’s as if everything leading up to this moment, including time, holds its breath.

Waiting.

Waiting to remember. 

They haven’t noticed me yet. 

Autumn twilight trails rather than bludgeons. 

In a few quick paces I’m at their sides. I’m not sure what I will do, but rage runs through me. Like venom in my veins, it spreads through my chest, my arms, my hands.

My hands.

I reach my hands deep into my pockets and pull out one of the stones. It feels good in my palm. Heavy, like the weight of worry.

I hold the stone high above my head, swing it down, then— 

The woman has terror in her eyes, no, not a woman, a girl, and it’s only when the stone smashes atop her head do I realize who she is.

Emily. My little Emily.

I stare in absolute awe as scarlet velvet flows from my daughter's head, down onto the blanket, her eyes fading from shock to horror to nothing. 

She had known me, she had always known me. 

Emily.

Marcel and Emily.

Marcel and—

Did he really think he could get away with—

Mad woman. No one likes a mad woman. 

I learned long ago that no one likes a mad woman. My Father would tell me such things before bed. And my Mother, well, she taught me to be a simple, stupid creature who cleaned, cooked, and fucked well. 

And I did so with ease, with grace, even. I did so, because I did not know any other way. 

And when it came to correcting Marcel, I too, did not know any other way. 

In those final, fleeting moments, before I brought the stone down onto the man who had proposed to me not two weeks ago, he pleaded for his life. He actually tried to make me see sense. 

I remember grinning.

Oh, the horror!

I remember laughing.

Oh, the audacity of this woman!

Or maybe I snarled, bared my teeth, for really, was it not his fault my daughter was dead? 

But make no mistake, there was nothing in the world capable of stopping me from ending him. 

A woman scorned? Maybe. A woman hellbent on waves of wrath? No, that wouldn’t even begin to describe me. 

There was, only me. 

The first blow lands with a crunch and knocks him out. The second caves in his skull. The third breaks bone, for some bones were made to break.

And the fourth, 

And the fifth,

And, 

And,

I’m sorry. 

I lost count.

In the center of the field two people lay side by side on a blanket, like two peas in a pod. They’re silent and still, like the full moon that hangs above them. 

I tuck the bloody stone back into my pocket and roll up my sleeves. A woman’s work is never done. 

You don’t think about the blood, how it smells. At least I didn’t. 

I find lavender stock growing in a nearby meadow. I pluck them by the fistful, shoving them into the pockets of my dress, my cleavage, my hair, everywhere and anywhere, all to get the smell of their blood off my skin. Like a dog I find myself rolling on the ground, smearing the purple flowers all over my arms, still slick with my daughter's blood. 

The lavender helps only a little. Mother would say it’s time to wash up.

And then I remember where I am. Henson Park. I am in Henson Park. And behind the meadow is a lake. A lake, surrounded by sycamores. 

I walk forward, inch by inch, as the water rises above my boots, my hips, my chest. Only my head is above the surface now and I let out a shriek of delight, for the shock and rush of water feels just right. 

Swirls of scarlet and lavender pool beside me, floating onward. Onward and out.

I grip the stones in my pockets. They feel so good in my palms. Heavy, like the weight of worry. 

And then, I take one more step forward, lose my footing, and drop beneath the murky surface. 

Bubbled breath. Water lilies. Sinking sanity.

And time. So much time.  

Mad woman. 

No one likes a mad woman.