Dear Grace

The Story Of A Girl

 

I’ve always blamed myself.

Who else was there to blame? If I hadn’t been there, things would have happened differently.

I’d like to tell you that she deserved it, tell you that it wasn’t my fault and plea for mercy.

But I like my dignity intact.

It was all my fault.

I know that now.

 

I remember the exact date. June 28th 1997. I could never forget that day, although the week prior to this catastrophe is just as memorable.

I had just moved schools, which didn’t seem like much of a fuss at the young age of eleven, however I noticed that my mother, being a single parent, had lost her natural beauty. Her hair began to change from her shiny brunette to a filthy gray, as though a fog was looming in her hair, and her eyes had grown dark and weary. A while after we had moved into our new house, just as we were settling in, as I was getting used to my new school, though I spent most of my free time alone, she simply lost her energy. She lounged for days on end, and sometimes I worried for her. I used to have thoughts, as though... perhaps she was unwell... what if, one gloomy day, I would return home from school and she’d be napping. I’d approach her still body and shake her arm playfully, but with no consequent reply of giggles. Nothing. I had nightmares that I’d find her sprawled out across the kitchen floor, stiff and lifeless, her cold flesh fading in colour with the loss of a heartbeat. That scared me.

 

Life in the new neighbourhood wasn’t all that scary though. I hadn’t made many friends other than the seniors that lived next door. Every time they saw me, they’d ask about my mother, though attempted to cover their fear, and gave me twenty pence, and stopped by every so often to check up on her, also binging along assorted crumbles with them which we shared by the table. Apple was my favourite.

About a month or so after moving in and settling at school, my mother took a turn for the worst. I caught her vomiting in the morning when I woke for school, and when she explained that she simply had a stomache ache, I saw a speck of blood drip from the side of her lips. Liar. I understand now that she was protecting me from the inevitable, though I would have preffered the truth. When I darted over my garden and burst through the door that evening after school, I came to find the old woman from next door perched upon the sofa. She wasn’t there to offer me one of her trademark crumbles. I vaguely remember her words, though I believe it was something along the lines of;

‘Oh, my, is it that time already?’ I nodded, ‘Right, then, why don’t you go play with your friends, aye? Me and your mother are just having a little chat.’

I was about to tell the kind old lady that I had no friends to play out with and readied for a sympathy hug, though once I saw the tears welling up in her eyes and how hard she tried to fight them back for my sake only, I just smiled and left.

Why did I leave?

I didn’t even say goodbye.

I’m sorry, mum.

 

Since I had no friends to hang out with, I simply strolled the streets for a couple of hours, hoping that boredom would suffice until sunset. It didn’t.

I wandered off over a field, curiosity taking over, as I explored the various twists and turns of the neighbourhood. As my vision slowly overcame the hill to peek out over the view of vast expanses of nature, mostly more field, though there were also forests and a few farms dotted about. My main attraction, however, was the young girl sat further down the hill, picking daisies and forming a necklace for herself by tying them together. I advanced towards the girl particularly quickly, glad to see another person that posed no physical threat.