Old lady death

Contains adult themes.

I hear them. They think I don’t hear them, but I do. Every day. They think they whisper secretly behind my back, but I hear them. At the supermarket, or in the post office queue. Eyes, staring into the back of my head. I hear them. I feel them. I see them cross the street to avoid me. I may walk with my head down, but I see them, and they are wrong.

 I know my house is the house that the kids in the street talk about. Don’t go near number ten, the little kids say. That’s Old Lady Death. She killed her kids and then her old man. Buried them in the front yard. She’ll come out and get you if you walk past her house. She’ll chop you up into little bits like her kids and her old man, and she’ll bury you with them in the front yard. That’s why she plants so many flowers out there. To mark the graves. To cover the smell of their rotting bodies. She’s trying to stop herself from going to hell for what she did.

They think I killed them and buried them in the front yard. They’re wrong. They’re all wrong. I won't come out and get you if you come past my house. I keep the flowers nice in the front garden because it makes the house look pretty. Helps me forget. Helps me forget about my old man. He stole my kids from me. He stole everything from me. Slowly and deliberately disassembling me one piece at a time. 

First, he stole my youth from me. Of course, I had no idea what he was doing at the time. I just fell for his big blue eyes. That, and the shiny car, and his smooth talk. And the promises, ah, yes the promises. I was so young, barely fifteen years old. He could have promised me the moon and I would have believed him. Sneaking out after dark when my parents were in bed. Oh, the shame of it, if only they’d known. Poor Mum and Dad, I miss them every day. Well, they found out. They found out when I missed my second period. The look of disappointment on my dad’s face haunts me to this day.

He stole my virginity from me on my sixteenth birthday, in the back of that shiny car. Damn, I can still taste his aftershave. Still burns the back of my throat. You can't get pregnant the first time. That’s what he told me. I wasn't in a position to argue. His strong hands around my wrists. Pushing my face against the fake leather seats. He promised me he loved me. I loved him so much. I thought that’s how everyone had sex. He told me he loved me and it would be ok. I told him it hurt. I begged him to stop. He hit me. Said I’d ruined it for him. I told mum I slipped on the wet leaves and banged my eye. He promised he’d never hit me again. I loved him so much it hurt.

He stole my trust from me. My trust in other people. I gave up counting the times he promised not to hit me again. I was scared to look in the mirror most days. I wore my hair over my face. No one ever saw my face. He said he loved me every day. I loved him. I never did hit him back. Not once.

He stole my future. I was an A grade student, I wanted to be a nurse. The teachers told my parents if I had studied hard I might be smart enough to become a doctor one day. One day. I didn't become a nurse. I didn't become anything. He took that from me. We got married. I loved him.

He stole my strength from me. Told me, without fail, every day how useless I was. How ugly I was. Put some make-up on, he would say. Your face is black and blue. What will people think? Told me every day it was my fault. Everything was my fault. It was my fault. I loved him.

He stole my dignity from me. Tiny piece by tiny piece. He would bring guys home from the pub and scream up the stairs until I came down. I would pretend I was asleep but he just yelled until he woke the baby. I was so scared he would hit the baby. He never did, as far as I know. It was just me. He only hit me. I would get the baby quiet before going down. The house stunk of beer. He would make me sit on the guys’ laps. I could feel them through my nighty. He would let the guys touch me. He fell asleep once, and one of them raped me. I daren’t make a sound. I know what rape is now. I understand it. I’ve been raped many times. I didn’t love him anymore.

The kids in my street throw eggs and flour at my house at Halloween. Nobody else's house, just mine. I turn all the lights off and watch them from the bedroom window. I sit in the shadows and watch. In the shadows where I belong. I am a shadow. They dare each other to go and knock on Old Lady Death's door. Be careful she doesn't catch you and bury you in the front yard with her old man, they whisper to each other. They're wrong. They say I killed him and buried him in the front yard. They’re wrong.

These days, I tie my grey hair up from my grey face, like a living shadow. I keep the front yard nice. I’ve planted new flowers every spring in the front yard since they went. The colours help me. They help me inside my head which has been grey since the house went quiet. 

He stole my kids from me.

He drowned them. He drowned them both at the same time in our bathtub. He said they weren’t his and that I was a whore for sleeping with guys from the pub. He said it was my fault. He hit me so hard that night I blacked out. When I woke up, he was gone, and so were their little bodies. Their limp, wet bodies. My babies. . . He killed my babies.

The people in the supermarket and the post office queue. The kids on the street who knock on my door then run as fast as they can, who throw flour and eggs at my windows. They say I killed him and buried him in the front yard.

They’re wrong. They’re all wrong.

I buried him in the backyard.

I don't go in the backyard anymore.