Buried Reality

Good, you chose to open this instead of discarding it as scrap paper. I wasn’t sure what to think when I left it on your desk, but already you have surpassed my expectations. Keep going and perhaps you will even accomplish what I want from you. 

Don’t waste your time wondering who I am or how I know you. If you were astute enough, you would have realized it already. Do you remember? I was there when you came to check your mailbox, just about a year ago. You smiled at me and asked how my day was going. 

You were the first person to notice me, to treat me as a human being. I, being so starved for human companionship, was delighted by you, a compassionate, kind soul who knew how to bring a smile to the faces of others. I knew in that moment that you were worthy, that you were the one who could free me from my plight. 

But again and again you have disappointed me—the entirety of the last year has proven that you are a distractible, absent-minded individual who cannot be trusted to make the simplest of observations. Bitterness shredded my heart every time you ignored me; but still, you are the one I seek. Listen closely, for perhaps my insight will help you as you begin your search—which you undoubtedly will.

The village where I come from was a wonderful place, no doubt about it. Anyone who visited was envious of its residents; of their beautiful homes, their flawless lawns, and their perfect families. The joyful cries of children and the gentle chatter of parents could always be heard during the day, and a peaceful silence settled over the village at night; silhouettes of families gathered around dinner tables could be seen through the thin cream curtains that adorned the windows of every house.

There was an almost surreal magnificence to the beauty of this village—even the soft breezes that stirred the hedgerows only ruffled people’s hair, without messing it up as breezes so often did. The lazy ripple of leaves in the summer and the delicate cloak of snow in the winter was all the picture of absolute perfection; not one hair out of place, every aspect tailor-made for comfort and cheer.

So how could such a community face such a problem? Surely you must understand that these things did not happen in this village. Women did not simply leave their homes and vanish for months. Penelope had been the first, and it had left the village reeling, and most of all, afraid that their untouchably perfect lives had been compromised as reality crept into their neighborhood. 

For the first few weeks, dread was palpable in the air; no longer did the shouts of children ring happily through the streets, nor was there pleasant chatter. Instead, adults met only with close friends and whispered amongst themselves, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as though a demon might leap from the hedgerows to terrorize them. Her name was whispered through the streets, but few were truly concerned for her; their fear was for their own safety and the now-vulnerable perfection of their community, which had been stained the moment Penelope had failed to return home. 

So, in a way, not a single one of them was actually worried about the missing woman herself. 

Am I so wrong in calling them monsters? 

They were mourning, but not for the right reasons; they were afraid, but not for the right reasons; they were miserable, but not for the right reasons!

I despised them all, hated the way they pretended as though nothing had happened, loathed their tight smiles and the fake cheer in their voices, detested the unblemished, quintessential little lives that they carried on with despite knowing that one of their own was in trouble. Even now rage thrums in the pit of my stomach, threatening to swallow me whole with its enormity. 

How could they simply move on? Without a search, without concern, without a care in the world? Were they even capable of empathy? 

This isn’t to say that the missing herself was a golden model who upheld all that was righteous; oh, no, absolutely not. But they didn’t know that, did they? Her image in the village was just like any other woman’s: bright smile, glowing eyes, happy family. She was one of the most revered figures in the town, but no one knew about the one person to whom she showed no sympathy.

They whispered how unfortunate it was that Penelope had been blessed with such an unruly child, but no one saw that she often punished her daughter by locking her in the basement for days. They knew that her child was often seen with bruises all over her body, glowing purple and black on her face and arms, but never thought that her mother could be the cause. They ignored the tears in the girl’s honey-brown eyes in their hurry to move away from her, muttering darkly about what a disgrace she was to her mother.

No one stopped to sympathize with that girl. No one wondered how she must have felt, bearing year after year of the same treatment. No one bothered to ask her if she was all right. 

Oh, how much that girl suffered…never did she find the answers to the questions that plagued her so often. They whispered in her mind, swirling in the same patterns again and again. Why was she treated as she was? Why couldn’t her father save her from her mother? What had she done wrong? 

Why didn’t Mommy love her? 

But she never got an answer, no matter how hard she tried. 

As children, we don’t see what is right in front of our eyes; the rosy lenses that glaze our vision in the earliest stages of our lives prevent us from spotting the differences between our perception of reality and its true form. But age pokes holes in the thin gossamer sheet of our safe, cozy imaginations—and as she grew older, the girl glimpsed the hatred in her mother’s eyes deepen with every week that passed. 

Perhaps it was because of the rising amount of gray in her mother’s ebony hair, or the wrinkles that began carving into her porcelain skin; perhaps it was the way she saw her mother constantly reaching for her pale blue pills, which made her dull gray eyes cloud over for hours on end; or perhaps it was her own newfound bravery, mingled with the bone-deep tiredness of being abused constantly, that pushed her off the edge.

I told you that you need to understand what happened and why it happened; surely you must know that everyone has a breaking point. You must see that years and years of mistreatment from her mother drove the girl to that breaking point. Of course she didn’t want to be caught in an argument with her mother. Of course she didn’t want her mother to push her in a rage. Of course she hadn’t meant to shove her mother back as hard as she could in a rage of her own, so sick, so tired, of her constant abuse.

That sickening crunch. The emptiness in her eyes—which had, only moments ago, been so full of anger.  

But I digress.

So you must understand the story from all sides and angles. You must see how it was the only way to escape for that young girl, to attain a kind of freedom that she had never experienced before. You see it, don’t you? You must, you must! 

Ignore the dark splotches that stain these pages, wet and smudged. Ignore the way in which my pen strokes grow more and more desperate as I approach the end of my letter. Will you listen to me? It would certainly be the first time that anyone has done so. The villagers think that I do not hear their whispers; the snide comments that pass behind gloved hands, the words exchanged with quiet giggles or reproachful eyes.  I may be known as the village lunatic, but that is simply because they don’t understand me. My knowledge could save our home, prevent it from ever becoming the hell that Penelope’s daughter had to face every day; but they choose to ignore me instead, degrading me as just another hag on the streets, begging for coins. 

I am in no need of their coins. It is they who will beg for me, one day, when they realize just how much they value me.  

But you are different. You understand me, and that is precisely why you are reading this right now. It is why I have been following you, day after day, for the past year. 

But you’ve been distracted. You haven’t noticed the slight tilt of the picture frames when you come back from work, or the smudges on your car—as though a face had been pressed to the glass for a closer look. You haven’t heard the quiet tap of footsteps behind you as you step into your favorite restaurant to dine with your family, the same woman in an unremarkable maroon hoodie watching as you smile and laugh with the people you love the most in the world.

You can try to tell yourself this is all in your head; but can you ignore the chills racing down your spine?

But you don’t know everything—your parents have kept something from you. You must have wondered, at some point in your life, about the one hollow part of your heart that always yearned for more. Hasn’t it always felt like something was missing? All those lazy afternoons spent gazing blankly at the TV—didn’t you ever wonder about the sudden moments of loneliness that threatened to overpower you? 

You always knew—you knew that there was more to those whispered conversations between your parents in the living room, that you were being kept in the dark about something so large that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. 

Did you ever realize, Cousin? Did you ever realize that a whole branch of your family was being hidden from you? Perhaps you saw darkness cloud your mother’s expression at the mention of a sister. Penelope was always the dark horse—but the fact that they did not tell you about her just goes to show how much your family hated mine. 

All those days spent locked in the basement, wincing every time I touched one of my bruises, I dreamt of a large, happy family, with doting grandparents and motherly aunts and playful cousins. At the time, it was just another impossible fantasy used to distract me from the horror that was reality. But I have found you now; that is all that matters to me. 

You know, your doors don’t lock very well—it was remarkably easy to slip inside before you came home. It is a beautiful house, but you’ve also left so many hiding places—the large laundry hamper, the gap behind the couch, the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink…

Listen.

You know, deep in your heart, that every creak, every rustle, is my way of keeping you company. Isn’t this a fun game? One where I have the best vantage point, and the final laugh. 

Scared, Cousin? 

Don’t worry—I mean you no harm. All I need from you is one simple favor. 

Go to the village. You will know at once which house is mine: old, abandoned, and desolate. It will be unlike all of the others—just another sign of my isolation. You will see a beautiful weeping willow in the backyard. 

My mother’s bones lie deep in the ground just underneath it.

But finding Penelope is not all—you must clear my name. It is what you owe me, after abandoning me all those years to a madwoman who had the village wrapped around her finger. Surely you must see that I am the victim here? Believe me when I tell you, Cousin, that I am not to blame! Was it so wrong of me to defend myself from someone who had stripped me of my very childhood? Was it my fault or hers? Surely hers, you must see!

But perhaps you have your own ideas of who is the villain in this story. Perhaps you have interpreted my desperation as madness and are sympathetic to Penelope. 

That will not be tolerated.

Should you stray from the path I have set you on, rest assured that your life will no longer be the same. Should you toss this letter and choose to ignore my words… 

You will realize that silence isn’t always empty. 

Deviate from my instructions, and who knows? Perhaps your descendants will one day find your bones, hidden under that same weeping willow tree.