Taking her advice, albeit in a roundabout way, I meander through the cemetery with the wind cold blowing on my face from the nearby sea. Everywhere on the island feels like this, I remember, and I take a moment to look out over sloping farmland, faraway cows, and rows of fields not-yet seeded for the season.
“This place really used to feel like home,” I whisper to myself, happy that there’s no one around to hear me. In fact, the cemetery is deserted, not that I’m surprised. It’s not impressive, or large, or a particularly big deal to anyone outside of the island. And even then, it’s not the only cemetery to bury one’s dead.
My eyes drift from headstone to headstone, and I briefly try to remember which ones I’d rubbed with paper and crayons back in the day, to no avail. It’s been too long, and the memories are too polluted by the abuse that came after.
I’m nearly at the top of a hill by the time the headstones start showing dates closer to what I’m looking for. The stones themselves are in better condition, and a few of them sport flowers, little statues, and other appropriate decorations. One, in fact, boasts a large garland and two huge arrangements on either side, the flowers bright and proud like they were placed there this morning. Reading the names brings me no recognition, however, and try as I might, I can’t quite remember the last names ofanyoneon the island whom I used to know.
Tiredness creeps into me as I try to repel the bad memories, and a deep-seated frustration follows at my lack of good ones. I’d never realized until now just how fewgoodmemories remain in my head, and just how quickly the bad ones had taken root to spread like rot along my brain.
I hate it,and the resentment burns in my chest for my whole walk up to the corner of the cemetery, where two black, marble-like headstones sit side by side and unadorned by decoration.
Anna Morwen.
Loving wife, sister, and daughter.
Rick Morwen.
Loving husband, brother, and son.
Horses decorate my mother’s headstone, while my father’s has a lighthouse etched into the stone. My eyes trace them as I read the words over and over in my head, realizing what they’re missing even as my fingers clench into my palms.
A tear streaks down my cheek, and I wipe it away in horror. I haven’t cried in years, and this isn’t the time to start. Instead, I force myself to glare vehemently at both headstones as my hands shake at my sides.
“You really were awful,” I whisper to my mother’s grave. “Do you know that? You claimed I was a monster that took over your daughter. But you know what?” Stepping forward, my shadow is cast over the grave and gives the horses a sinister, shaded appearance. “I’m the monster you made me,Mom.”I can’t help the way I snarl the words, or how shaky they come out. Another tear attempts liberation from my eye, but I scrub my palms over my face until my cheeks and eyes burn.
“And you weren’t much better.” I round on my father’s grave, though some of the scorn fades from my words. “I can’t hate you like I hate her, but why couldn’t you help me?!” I don’t mean for my voice to get louder, and I look around to make sure no one is around to hear the way my words echo in the pine trees surrounding Sunnyside.
“Why couldn’t youhelp me?”I ask again, begging in a whisper. “Not the little things. I know you brought me blankets and food and tried to talk Mom down sometimes. But you could’ve helped me. You could’ve stopped her.”
My knees give out, and my legs fold until I’m sitting cross-legged on the ground between my parents’ graves with my face in my hands, my eyes dull. “And I’m scared,” I admit, more to the air around me than to them. “I’m scared because I thought you were wrong, Mom.” My eyes drift back to her grave, narrowing. “I thought you were just crazy, because there was no way I was a monster. I was the daughter you loved. I was—” My voice breaks, and I have to close my eyes against the hot pressure of tears that I won’t allow to fall.
“You weren’t right,” I insist finally, trying to sound sure. “At least, I don’t think you were.” Getting a hold of myself so I no longer feel like crying, I lean back on my hands to stare up at the cloudless sky, letting the sun warm my face as the breeze ruffles my hair.
“I wasn’t a monster before you made me one,” I say again, with more conviction this time. “If you hadn’t done that, I think I would’ve been fine. I would’ve grown up and been happy. I would’ve trained horses with you. But now?” I scoff. “Horses terrify me. Did you know that? They used to keep me up at night in that loft, and I grew to be so scared of them. Especially that bastard stallion of yours. He reminded me of you. It felt like you could watch me through him, that he would tell you if I did anything wrong.”
I’m silent for a few minutes, and I simply watch the island, from the whispering trees to the sliver of farmland I can just see down the sloping hills to my right.
“I was fine,” I sigh. “But not anymore. That’s why I came back.” I blink, and my fingers curl into the hard, cold earth beneath me. “I just wanted to talk to you both. Maybe I just wanted to see how you made me feel after all these years. Is that pathetic of me?” An unhappy smile crosses my lips, and I shake my head.
“I don’t feel like myself. Or rather, the version of me I’ve been trying to become ever since you guys died. I thought I could fix myself, you know? I thought it was just a lapse, just me going crazy for a night over what you did. But I don’t think that’s the case.” On a whim, I flop onto my back between the decomposing bodies of my parents in the ground below, and stare up at the sky, the wind in my ears sounding like some of the best white noise nature can provide.
“I think I’m falling down that well you tried so hard to drown me in, Mom.” My arms shift so I can fold them loosely over my chest, and I weave my fingers together just above my stomach. “I think you should’ve tried harder to kill me. Because this thing you’ve made me?” I huff out an unhappy, darkly amused sigh.
“I think she might really be a monster.”
Chapter
Fifteen
Esme doesn’t really say anything the night that I get back. She just looks at me, and her questions about my day trip are careful, probative, rather than truly asking. She seems uncomfortable about something she sees in me, but I don’t think I can blame her.
I feel different, though I’m not sure how to explain it. Ever since going to the cemetery and lying on the cold ground between the bodies of my parents, I feel somewhat disconnected. Like that moral tether I’ve been clinging to is starting to fray faster than it ever has before.
I feel like a monster.
Not that I plan on telling Es that.
She’s excited when she’s called in for a special, late-night job at the news station, and I watch from the recliner in the living room as she bustles around the kitchen to throw things into her lunch box.
