I wish they would stop talking about closure. There is no such thing as closure.
Closure is a myth.
It lives in the criminal justice system when murder victim family members are told by the prosecution that they need closure before they can move on with their lives.
And closure will come with the execution of their loved one’s murderer. Because it will be over when the killer pays for his heinous deeds with his life, the ultimate price for his actions. That will affect the change needed. It will lift the clouds.
It won’t. Trust me.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t see her. Her chair is empty but I see her. How she sits at the front of the seat never leaning back. Her vanity is clean but empty. I see her sitting there putting on her make up before we go out. I can still smell her perfume. I miss her every holiday, every vacation, every passing of a birthday and anniversary. If I close my eyes she walks next to me. Breaths in my rhythm. But when I try to grab her hand…
The execution didn’t change anything. IF anything the execution added another nightmare to my already impressive arsenal.
Now I see him on the gurney with needles.
Now when I think of her I see him too.
That was not the case before. Before I had him locked away in a separate prison that my memory build just for him. He was in there behind a thick stone wall never to be seen, touched, or spoken to by mankind. But now he is out there.
Now I see him.
I hear his last words and I know the smell of the witness room.
Closure, it is a myth. And all shrinks should be ashamed of using the word.
He told me honestly that what he disliked most was to be continuously on edge. The slightest provocation would set her off. And, it need not even be a provocation. It could be the news, a magazine article, her soap opera ending, her hair. Anything.
He vowed he would never hit her, never return the violence, never file a report. Until the day he saw her hurt their baby. She had wanted an abortion from the start but then she changed her mind. He had his doubts but she softened so much after she saw the sonograms. She lightened up, became much less violent, less outbursts, and started to enjoy life. She had a smile on her face, became calm, and happy. Or so it seemed.
One day, when he had finished an assignment early his boss had given him the rest of the day off. He went to the nursery where they told him that she had picked up the baby early. He had not given them a note for that. There was no reason for an early pick-up either. They had agreed that full-time daycare was best for her to conquer her depressions, addictions, and mood swings.
When he arrived home, he saw her car in the garage with the driver’s door open. The baby’s carrier was still in the car. The garage door to the mud-room was open and with a heavy heart, he went inside. All was quiet except for the thumping sound of a ball bouncing down the stairs. And then he froze. There were no balls in the house.
He ran towards the stairs and saw his baby fall down the last three steps. Blood came out of her mouth and her neck was completely bend over. He didn’t hesitate. He ran to the phone and called 911. Then he cradled his girl in his arms telling her he loved her, kissing her little bruised head, feeling her dislocated neck bones. With tears in his eyes he looked up the stairs. He saw one hand sticking out holding a bottle. She was unconscious on the second floor hallway.
When the paramedics revived her she asked for him. He had already left in the ambulance with his daughter. In the ER, he told the cops what he had endured and had seen. And told them he wanted her arrested and charged.
I saw her at the arraignment. She was still foggy from the many drugs she had taken. She told me she took drugs that day to ward off the spirits that told her to play fetch with her baby. “Who called the cops on me? Nobody knew I was home. Nobody saw, I made sure of that. Do you know?”
I swallowed and bit back my tears. “I don’t know, sis. I really do not know what happened.” Then I got up and took my seat.
This post was inspired by today’s prompt from the Daily Post. It is a work of fiction and absolutely bears no resemblance to my family. My sister is the most wonderful mom in the world who raised two gentlemen.
I had been here before, a long time ago. I remember everything.
Walking along the corridors I see the battered baseboards, the peeling paint, and the hardwood floors that remind me of an English pub. The boards were mismatched, unfinished, and foot traffic had left these narrow light coloured trails all over the place.
When I was a kid I swore those trails were actually etched out in the wood. If you walked in them you’d sink in till your ankles and you’d have to climb out to reach the darker wood again.
As I walk the halls, I feel myself smiling at these memories. My feet do find the trails and I pretend to sink in a little lower, melting into the floor to honour my little self from so many decades ago. A small gesture to accept that I really was here. A nod to the little me who saw what she saw even though nobody else did.
The lights flicker. They are just lightbulbs hanging directly from the electrical wires. Nobody ever bothered to hang up real lights with a fitting and a proper cover. The ceilings are even more yellow than I remember. I always thought of those stains as pee spots. Those yellowing stains that became darker at the edges? They reminded me of my sheets. The sheets that I had to hide.
I hid them in my closet, my gym bag, underneath the bed, everywhere until they dried. Then, I would wait till laundry day. I would grab the sheets, sneak up the stairs to the next floor and wait. The staff would leave the carts outside in the hallway when they went in to change the bed sheets in the rooms. That’s when I would quickly dump my sheets in the dirty laundry bags attached to the carts and quietly return to my own floor. They never caught me but I always thought someone would.
I didn’t use to pee my pants at night. It just happened after. Every so many nights, I’d have that dream again and I’d wake up in my own urine. I tried to tell the staff what was going on but they claimed it was my overactive imagination. I do have a good imagination. I am super at making up stories or giving twists to books. Or rewriting the ending of books. Or day dreaming. I love day dreaming. But I didn’t make this one up. I saw it and as nobody would believe me I wrote it on the wall. That someone wanted to kill me. Still nobody took me serious. I doubt that people even saw my sign.
The staircases to the third floor are coming up and my eyes search the walls for the signature message I left there so many years ago. I thought I’d get caught immediately but no. You see that sign to the exhibition? Now go up three steps and look at the wall. You will see a smiling shrimp in blue paint. Someone spray-painted a black “Z” partly over it but you can still see the smile. The eyes are wide open arching the brows. She’s standing on my dead body.
“The shrimp” was the nickname for our cook because she liked her cocktails. Not much of a cook though. Just someone in charge of the pots and pans. She was the most corrupt person you’d come across. Anything that wasn’t attached or bolted was sold. Even the food. One day I saw her selling the food boxes that were meant for us. She had them in the trunk of her car and pretended to talk to a friend. That friend took the boxes to another car. Money exchanged hands but that wasn’t why I got so scared.
To make up for the lack of food she used fillers in our dinner. The fillers came from the farm next door. She’d creep over at night to steal buckets full of corn and meat leftovers usually given to the pigs. She’d add tons of cheap onions and garlic to cover up the taste and added heaps of pasta pretending it was a specialty dish. None of us was sophisticated enough to find out. We were just glad we had three meals a day. And as long as there was plenty to eat nobody cared what we ate.
What really scared me was that one day I saw her separate the corn from the meat in the sink. I should have backed away immediately but I could not help being fascinated by the small intestine pieces she was twirling between her fingers like a cheerleader’s baton. Then she saw me. She dropped the intestines and turned the faucet off. Then, with her hands still wet and dirty she took two steps forward and looked at me. Then she did it. She raised her right arm and with her hand she made a gun. And she pretended to kill me.
It was enough to scare the shit out of me only it wasn’t shit that came out of me, it was pee. She never told anyone and never treated me any different from the other kids. She never denied me food or seconds and never gave me more kitchen duties than I already had. Nothing. She didn’t need to. I guess she knew that.
Even now as an adult, I feel the tremor in my heart and my throat becomes thick when I think back at that moment. I bet my nose is red. I feel the tears coming up in my eyes and I know that if I let them they will roll over my face for everyone to see. If I was a kid right now I would have peed my pants. But I am an adult. I look again at the smiling shrimp standing laughing on my dead little body and I whisper: I hate what you did to me. ____________________
If you manage to get your hands on Tom Marvolo Riddle’s diary you probably want to write with a quill. Translate that into fountain pen and that’s me. But is the paper fountain pen-friendly?
Just because the book is produced by a beloved franchise doesn’t mean that everything is of top quality.
At Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley I picked up the journal and touched the paper. It felt very smooth to the touch. Almost so smooth that I was afraid it was not suitable for fountain pens. Does the ink roll off, does it make the nib scratch on the paper, does it bleed?
You fear the feathering and smudging and despite the fact that stains might contribute to the mysterious aura from the book,you know that it would be a turn off. And if you decide to spend the money on this book it better be one you use often.
I took the risk and today I tried out six different fountain pens in this book. The pens are:
a Sailor with a 14K golden music nib,
a Preppy with a steel 05 fine nib,
a Pilot Varsity with a steel fine nib,
a Pilot Kakuno with a steel medium nib,
a black Kaweco Sport with a broad steel nib, and
a tan Kaweco Sport with an Italic 1.1 steel nib. In the picture you can see the Kawecos together. I took another picture to show the differences in the nibs.
I wrote the pen names on the last pages of the book. As you can see in the first picture there is no feathering and on the back, no bleeding. That was a very pleasant surprise!
But I needed to see a longer written piece with more hand pressure applied to the pens.
I picked the Kaweco Sport with an Italic 1.1 steel nib to write a few of my favorite Dumbledore quotes.
I used my normal handwriting so no calligraphy or underlining. The results are fantastic. The paper’s smoothness didn’t hinder the writing, the nib didn’t scratch on the paper, the ink dried instantly, and check the picture: no bleeding!
My next experiment will be to sketch on a few pages in this book. I will probably use either the Sailor or the Kaweco Sport with a broad steel nib. I tend to write and sketch with those two most. If that turns out well too than the diary is worth every penny they charged for it.