The Lost Girl

I remembered my gleefully sadistic behaviour towards her. I loved to tease and torture her; it gave me some naïve sense of power over weaker creatures. All the sympathy, all the grief had been an invention of my own guilty psyche. Even my memory of leaving her funeral crying had suddenly been altered, I remembered it correctly now. I had been told to leave because I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Only now you’re remembering?” Sidney said, reminding me he was still in the room. “I don’t believe you.”

I didn’t reply because there was nothing left to say. My whole life I had let her bloody murder scab over with false memories and invented stories, trying to fool everyone so badly that eventually even I fell for it. He rose from the bath, and the water ran in snakes across his body.

I turned around and stared at the doll. Running towards it, I picked it up and held it against the light. I remembered burying her, covering her pretty white face with handfuls of dirt. It had stuck under my nails, and I’d cleaned them in the pond.

I started to cry. The doll looked at me impassively, giving me the same blank look it had for the past forty years. It had known all along.

“You sicken me, Diane…you absolutely disgust me…”

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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)