Goodbye, Mary

It’s funny how I spent my whole life forming relationships, working, trying to be a good person and building something out of nothing to feel safe, secure and happy. It’s even funnier how it all went away in a matter of few days, a few days that rocked my world, ruined all my foundations and forced me to take steps I would never imagine to have to take.

My black boots slightly sink in the mud and I swear at myself that I chose this specific day for such an unimportant matter. Didn’t the weather prediction say it will rain all night? Maybe. I haven’t paid much attention to things so trivial.

I fix my black coat, seeing it has lifted slightly in the corner, and feel a cold breeze wash over my bare legs. I should have worn leggings or at least tights, but I couldn’t find any black ones, and surely I should not be wearing any other colour to the funeral.

It’s hardly a funeral though. I am the only person here, watching the freshly dug ground and the sun reflecting stone gravestone. Maryanne Robinson the grave says. Her date of birth and death are also engraved, but no other message, like others have. There are no “Loving daughter” or “She left us too soon” or some cheesy poem quote about inevitable death and the horror of young people dying.

She was only 26 years old, it definitely is too young to die, she’s had her whole life ahead of her. And now, she’s buried on some old, almost abandoned cemetery, where no one will visit her, bring fresh flowers or tend to her grave.

Maryanne was a fearful person, she was too scared to stand up to her toxic manager at work and let them bully her. She was in a relationship with a man she didn’t love, because being on her own terrified her. She never voiced her feelings, fought for what she believed or chased her dreams. She was living an anxious life and never tried to change it.

I sit down at the bench just a couple of steps away from the grave, and I keep looking at the stone, as if it is going to speak to me, give me some words of comfort or reassurance. But nothing comes my way, except the cold wind, a not very warm sun flashing my eyes. I take a deep breath and put my hands on my knees.

“You had it coming.” I almost whisper, not wanting for my words to be stolen by the wind and scattered across the land. “You very damn well had it coming and you know it.”

Saying it doesn’t ease my hurt, if anything it makes me more angry. Because it is true.

“You should have quit it when you had a chance. It is too late now, I guess…”

I take another deep breath, trying to calm down my emotions.

The sun hides behind the miserable clouds and the windy breeze feels even colder now. My whole body shivers in response and muscles tense up. A mostly cloudy and cold day is a perfect setting for funeral, makes it easier to leave the graves behind and dive into the warmth of a car or a house.

But not me. I can’t leave just yet, not until I finish what I started.

Maryanne lived in a belief that if she consciously stayed out of trouble and allowed people to walk all over her, she would be at peace. It worked for a while, the problems didn’t seem like problems back then, she forgave everyone who hurt her, never questioned anyone’s actions or motives, agreed to everything she was thrown at. It was the ultimate goal, wasn’t it?

Until it stopped working. The trouble came looking for her and she couldn’t keep it away, regardless of how hard she tried. That was the first time she fought back, stood her ground and followed her beliefs. It wasn’t enough, it was never going to be enough.

And now she’s stuck in this endless loop of bad decisions she can never make right. And it still hurts me to know that Maryanne will never be fully free.

I glance at my purse that I placed next to me on the bench and swallow hard, feeling my anxiety rise once again. It has to be done. I remind myself, hoping it will bring me some courage. It doesn’t but it was worth a try.

It has been a while since that information has been dropped on me and the steps I need to take been explained. I have had enough time to process and digest everything, yet I’m still worried. It is an incredibly serious situation and I cannot predict how this will affect me in the future. Yet I have no choice, the worst thing has already happened, now I just have to keep covering my tracks to stay hidden, stay a shadow that no one can catch. And killing Maryanne Robinson was the first step.

I reach for my bag, take out her passport and a small, handheld shovel. The top corner of the passport is already snipped off, as per the instructions from the government received when I registered Mary’s death. The next steps seem easy to make, but yet feel the hardest. They feel final, as if killing someone is not final enough.

Reluctantly I open the passport and look at the photo. I used to look so mediocre back then, with my uneven fringe, refusal to wear any make up, official and modest clothes. I didn’t even smile for that picture, apparently it was the rules.

I then glance at the name written next to the photo and I take another deep breath. My passport is still valid for another 2 years (or it would be hadn’t I cut off the corner), but it doesn’t matter. I am dead, officially, I had to die. The work I will be doing is dangerous, risky, and very important. All the ties to my previous life had to be cut and that’s why Maryanne had to die, for Cassie to be born.

I approach the grave and kneel on the grass. With a pounding heart I dig a foot deep hole into the fresh ground and gently place the passport there. After filling the hole back up, I stand up and keep staring at my grave.

“Goodbye, Mary.” I whisper with a single tear rolling down my cheek. I don’t wipe it, I allow it to slowly drop on the ground.