ceiling. Would this be the last thing she saw? This discoloured uneven excuse for a ceiling. It had never bothered her before but she’d been staring at it for over a week now and it aroused an anger in her that was as fierce as it was absurd. She shouldn’t even be in here – she should be in the front room with Anna. From the moment it had happened, she knew she had to tell her the truth, but how to find the words? It was so awful, so unbelievable, what could she say to her? So she’d kept quiet. Day after awful day. Her daughter knew nothing about the deadly ultimatum or the gun that she’d hidden in the bedside table. Anna was a riot of misery and confusion and she would have to stay that way because Marie would not – could not – tell her the truth.
She was a bad mother. A bad person. She had to be to have invited such misfortune upon them. She had chosen a wrong ’un to marry and conceived a child who could barely function. Without giving any cause for offence, she had provoked endless abuse and countless acts of random violence. And now this. The cruellest of blows and the one that would finally end their sorry story. She had given up wondering why this was happening to them – it was just the way it was. She’d given up fighting too. The phone line had been dead since Ella left, the doors were locked from the outside and no one responded to her cries. Once she thought she’d seen a figure – a child perhaps – when she was shrieking out of the window. But it had hurried off. Perhaps she’d imagined that. When you’re stuck in a perpetual nightmare, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not.
Anna was crying again. It was one of the few functions of which she was capable and it cut Marie to the quick. Her daughter was lonely and scared – two things Marie had sworn she would never be.
Marie found herself on her feet. Walking towards the door, she stopped. Don’t do this. But she must. She knew it really. Their only weapon against the world was their love and their solidarity and Marie had stupidly smashed that because of her own fear and cowardice. It was pitiful, pathetic. Having determined not to tell Anna the truth about their predicament, now she knew she had to. It was her only weapon. Their only hope.
Still Marie paused. Trying to find the words to excuse her cruelty, her silence. But it was impossible to find the words, so summoning up the courage, she left the bedroom and walked into the living room. She’d expected to be greeted by Anna’s accusatory glare, but miracle of miracles the girl was asleep. Her crying had finally worn the young teenager out and for a brief moment she was free of their nightmare. Anna was at peace.
What if she never woke up? Marie was suddenly exhilarated by this thought. She knew she would never shoot her own daughter – that was an impossibility. But there were other ways. In the years since Anna was diagnosed, Marie had read of numerous instances where mothers who had been unable to cope with their child’s severe disabilities had taken their lives. They said it was to end their child’s suffering, but it was to end theirs too. Society viewed them with sympathy, so why not her too? Anything would be better than slowly starving to death here. Their bodies would rebel against them soon anyway, so what choice was there?
Marie found herself back in her bedroom. Heading to the bed, she picked up the thin pillow and turned it over in her hands. Her mind was racing now. Would she have the courage to do it? Or would her nerve fail her? Vomit suddenly rose into her mouth – she dropped to her knees and was violently sick in the bin. Picking herself up, she found that the pillow was still clutched tightly in her hands.
Best not to hesitate. Best not to waver. So Marie quickly marched out of her bedroom and back into the room where her daughter was slumbering peacefully.
35
I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t resist. I’d searched in vain
She was a bad mother. A bad person. She had to be to have invited such misfortune upon them. She had chosen a wrong ’un to marry and conceived a child who could barely function. Without giving any cause for offence, she had provoked endless abuse and countless acts of random violence. And now this. The cruellest of blows and the one that would finally end their sorry story. She had given up wondering why this was happening to them – it was just the way it was. She’d given up fighting too. The phone line had been dead since Ella left, the doors were locked from the outside and no one responded to her cries. Once she thought she’d seen a figure – a child perhaps – when she was shrieking out of the window. But it had hurried off. Perhaps she’d imagined that. When you’re stuck in a perpetual nightmare, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not.
Anna was crying again. It was one of the few functions of which she was capable and it cut Marie to the quick. Her daughter was lonely and scared – two things Marie had sworn she would never be.
Marie found herself on her feet. Walking towards the door, she stopped. Don’t do this. But she must. She knew it really. Their only weapon against the world was their love and their solidarity and Marie had stupidly smashed that because of her own fear and cowardice. It was pitiful, pathetic. Having determined not to tell Anna the truth about their predicament, now she knew she had to. It was her only weapon. Their only hope.
Still Marie paused. Trying to find the words to excuse her cruelty, her silence. But it was impossible to find the words, so summoning up the courage, she left the bedroom and walked into the living room. She’d expected to be greeted by Anna’s accusatory glare, but miracle of miracles the girl was asleep. Her crying had finally worn the young teenager out and for a brief moment she was free of their nightmare. Anna was at peace.
What if she never woke up? Marie was suddenly exhilarated by this thought. She knew she would never shoot her own daughter – that was an impossibility. But there were other ways. In the years since Anna was diagnosed, Marie had read of numerous instances where mothers who had been unable to cope with their child’s severe disabilities had taken their lives. They said it was to end their child’s suffering, but it was to end theirs too. Society viewed them with sympathy, so why not her too? Anything would be better than slowly starving to death here. Their bodies would rebel against them soon anyway, so what choice was there?
Marie found herself back in her bedroom. Heading to the bed, she picked up the thin pillow and turned it over in her hands. Her mind was racing now. Would she have the courage to do it? Or would her nerve fail her? Vomit suddenly rose into her mouth – she dropped to her knees and was violently sick in the bin. Picking herself up, she found that the pillow was still clutched tightly in her hands.
Best not to hesitate. Best not to waver. So Marie quickly marched out of her bedroom and back into the room where her daughter was slumbering peacefully.
35
I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t resist. I’d searched in vain
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