Buried Memories

BURIED MEMORIES

After twenty-one years I’m about to accomplish the last stage of my mission. I hesitate at the cemetery gates, wondering how I’ll feel when I actually see her grave. The watery sun dips behind clouds, a chill finger caresses my spine as I turn the rusty handle. I expect the gate to creak, but am more disturbed when instead it swings open rapidly on silent hinges, like a ravenous giant mouth that’s been hungrily awaiting my arrival for a long time. Taking a deep breath, I step through the entrance onto the snow-covered path; the gates close behind me with an echoing clang, a satisfied belch. I adjust my coat and rehearse one more time what I need to tell Maria; what she needs to hear to finally rest in peace. This will be the first and probably last time I visit her grave. Tension stiffens my limbs, my steps through virgin snow tentative and unsteady, yet I know this is something I have to do.

         There’s only the sound of my scrunching footsteps and the occasional flap of wings as startled rooks acknowledge this stranger passing by. I make my way towards the ancient sycamore, whose bare straggly branches scratch the sky like gnarled skeletal fingers. I’m sure her grave lies to the left of the tree; neglected and isolated, just as she was in life. An icy breeze gently pushes me towards the simple weathered headstone. My eyes well with tears as I brush the snow from the raised lettering. The stone confirms what I have visualised for so long; what I have known despite no one believing me and I feel an unfamiliar inner calm.

         ‘Maria Dove. Born March 25th 1930. Died January 12th 1952.’

         Words as cold and emotionless as the stone upon which they are carved. Too young to be the beloved mother of any children; something she’d wanted so much, orphaned at birth, she longed to fill the lives of her own children with love and happiness but such opportunity taken away from her. No parents of her own to mourn her death, no known siblings; only him at her funeral, feigning grief. The hypocrite, the bastard.

         I kneel on the solid frozen ground and place the bunch of scented freesias on the mound of earth. They were her favourite flowers in life, just as they are mine.

         “It’s done,” I whisper, knowing she will understand, already sensing her gratitude from beyond the grave that justice has prevailed. The wind, although bitterly cold, wraps itself around me in a comforting embrace, assuring me she’s relieved.

         “I tried to tell them, I’ve done my best, but their minds are closed so I had no alternative,” I tell her. The sweet scent of the flowers assails me; yet further confirmation of her appreciation.

         It's believed Maria took her own life at the tender age of twenty-one. No one questioned the verdict, as she’d been a quietly disturbed, emotionally unstable girl all her life.

         “How sad,” they all said. “Her husband loved her so much; she had so much to live for, but even such a wonderful man as he could not ultimately heal her wounds.” Fools, not one of you cared enough to ask questions or discover the truth.

         Maria idolised her husband, wanted nothing more than to spend her life with him, raise a large family, but that philanderer, that no-good selfish, shallow scum bag didn't deserve to walk on the same ground as someone like Maria. Her adoration rankled him, restricted him, so to regain his freedom he cold-heartedly poisoned her, then walked away without a slither of guilt, knowing the few acquaintances they had would accept the verdict of suicide.

         A clock chimes in the distance; the deep tones resonating in the winter air like a stranded explorer calling for attention. It’s five-o-clock; exactly the time on this same day, twenty one years ago that Maria took her last breath. I struggle to repress the nauseous, suffocating feeling I’ve experienced on so many occasions, but this time it dissipates quickly. I know it will not happen again. I have put an end to Maria’s torment and my own.

         I can still visualise his face as I repeatedly plunged the knife into his chest, the confusion in his terrified eyes as to why a total stranger should attack him this way. I can still see the specks of fresh blood on my hands and clothing, still wallow in the satisfaction of ending his life, just as he ended Maria’s. I feel no shame; he had twenty-one more years of life than Maria; years she’s spent rotting underground, ones I’ve spent living in agony, knowing the truth but unable to convince anyone. I’m just a head case as far as society is concerned; a schizophrenic who can’t be helped by psychiatrists, who needs locking away. They’ll get their wish but I don’t mind any more, my task is complete.

         I never actually met Maria; she died shortly before I was born. I’m not a relative as such, nor did I ever play a part in her short life on earth. But, I know more about her than anyone, alive or dead; I’ve lived with her pain and suffering and been consumed with rage at the injustice of her premature demise all my life. And I’ve always known she wanted to avenge the man who sent her to this untended early grave. How do I know? Because, I was Maria in my last life. Blessed or cursed in this one to remember, trying and failing to convince others that reincarnation is a reality.

         “Goodbye Maria, sleep well.” I stand, brush the snow from my knees, before taking out the blood-stained knife from my pocket to place next to the freesias. A sudden gust whips some of the snow from the branches overhanging Maria’s resting place. It lands with a soft thud on top of the knife. I watch as the blood seeps into the snow like scarlet ink and forms the words ‘Thank You.’ I’m confident Maria will be at peace now.

         “Murdered in the first, a murderer in the second; maybe we’ll get it right next life. Third time lucky they say.” My words are rewarded with the sound of tinkling, girlish laughter accompanying the now subsiding wind.

         I turn away to walk back towards the cemetery gates, knowing I’ll soon be either imprisoned in jail or sectioned in a secure unit. Despite that knowledge I feel calmer and more content than ever before in my life, or should I say lives?