It will be a parting gift. Something to remind him of “us.”
Clouds skid across the darkening September sky, nudged along by an insistent wind. “It’s time,” it seems to hiss as it whistles around the rooftops.
The swallows have heard it too. They gather on the telephone line overhead, their slit-throats lined up and their tails criss-crossing in different directions like scissors, ready to cut ties.
It’s a time for bursting out of the summer haze into vivid autumn colour and activity. A time for new starts and sowing seeds. I prepare the soil, loosening and enriching it.
“You’re beautiful,” he said on our first date, plying me with wine. I blushed, softening, ripe for the taking.
I cleave at the soil, ripping out pretty plants by the roots. Twigs snap like cracking ribs, leaves tear like flesh. I crush petals and strangle stems.
Digging deep, I carefully select the cuttings and bulbs, nestling them in the ground. My engagement ring, photos and mementos are laid to rest among them. Then I cover them with a soft blanket of soil and water them lovingly.
“Mutton dressed as lamb.”
Stinking Irises.
“Ugly bitch.”
Deadly Nightshade.
“That was embarrassing.” You’re losing your mind.” You imagined it.”
Japanese Knotweed. Scentless roses. Prickly Pears.
The new life inside me has taken root. Now the knotted brambles that intertwined it are beginning to untangle themselves, and a newfound strength blooms within me. I imagine the quickening of tiny kicks, too soft to feel, thrashing from within. A signal of urgency. “Mum. Let’s go!”
I scatter the floral carcasses across the driveway theatrically, remnants of a massacre for all to see. Curtains are twitching already as the neighbours strain to gawp at his perfect reputation, mutilated.
Taking a bow, I wave to my audience with mud-stained hands, feeling light as a feather. Then I rub the dirt from my hands onto my jeans and exit stage left, swishing an imaginary skirt as I step into the car.
Just like a star of the West End. Except I am my own chauffeur.
The swallows take flight when I start the engine, as though they have been waiting to see me off. Their wings flap farewell, the expectant garden disappearing in my rear-view mirror.
His twisted bundle of agony will emerge in all its glory in the spring. And somewhere out there, in sunnier climes, I’ll be nesting and nursing.
Off I fly.
