Gertrude's Palace

Mother

My name is Gertrude Katherine Turner and today is my 14th birthday. Last night I had a good dream. I was at my old school, and I dreamt that the boys were once again chanting "Trudy, Trudy, arms all bruisy, did she fall down the stairs? Trudy, Trudy, legs all bruisy, do you think anyone cares!". Then, suddenly, my mother appeared, and she snapped their necks, one by one, like I saw her do one time to a couple of rabbits while she was hunting. Screams, then silence, and peace. It was a fantastic birthday dream.

Everyone called me Trudy when I used to attend school, but if anyone called me Trudy now, they'd have their necks snapped too. When I used to go to school, many people from all over Greenvale would come to 'our palace' and my mother would host these parties for father. I always knew that she had always hated hostessing, even if she never outwardly said so.

I hated father's parties too, a sea of Greenvale Prep boys, and their fathers who would come looking for me, chase me, and catch me. The house would creak and sway as they ran, pushing them out like an unborn child. I could sometimes lose them in the attic because they hated how the wind would howl through the broken window. I would even sleep on the floor, curl up next to the old sofa or the old swing, and try not to breathe too loudly. I needed to stop thinking about bad things, after all, it was my birthday.

The swing of the axe was what my mother liked best, not the chop, or the sound, but the swing. The feeling of momentum taking over and creating and building power and force. She always told me that I was in control of the axe. I could decide how powerfully I wanted to wield it and how I should use that power with care. Today I was the most powerful, as I swung into the log at speed, the snap of the wood clean, sharp, and precise. Unlike mother, I liked the snap the best.

When we used to chop wood together, I always noticed my mother's body was just a grown-up version of my own. I remember watching her swing the axe, the curvature of her breast like my own, the definition in her legs like my own, bruises on her thighs, hands, neck like a carbon copy of my own. I bet father was exceptionally bad at chopping wood, considering how feeble and scrawny he is and despite it being the only useful thing about him, Father won't chop wood anymore. Later, I brought the wood back inside, lit the fire, and put on my new navy-blue suit and tie. It was time to sit father down for my birthday dinner.