Page 29 of Grotesque Love

Last night I’d let the groundsman get inside my head, filling the shadows with monsters and ghouls until I was half crazed with fear.

I’m sick of fear. I am always afraid. It’s a familiar friend these days.Why?

Finding a pair of wellies that look small enough for me in the mud room, I unlock the back door and start walking.

I don’t know where I’m heading. I don’t have a plan. I just…walk.

The afternoon sun sits high in the sky, and the air is mild, the breeze cool on my bare legs and arms. I always loved early summer, the heat soaking into my skin without it being uncomfortably hot. Splashes of colour stretch out across the overgrown gardens, wildflowers claiming every fertile patch of land they can. Last night everything was terrifying, but today it’s like another world as birds chirp and butterflies dance from flower to flower.

I avoid the maze, memories of my dream making my skin break out in goosebumps. Instead, I wander through the grass, which gets longer and longer until it practically reaches my waist, following the curve of the coastline until I’m on the edge of the forest.

Large flagstones peek out of the shadows, mostly covered over with moss and weeds, and I scramble up to stand on the first stone. More and more are revealed until I realise that it’s a pathway, swallowed up by nature.

Curious, I jump gingerly across onto the next stone, testingthe soreness in my muscles as I go. Then the next. And the next. Until I reach the remnants of a stone wall, crumbling and buried. As I follow the trail, more ruins emerge.

I break through some thick undergrowth and almost fall face first into a clearing.

It must have been a family chapel, I realise, as shafts of sunlight beam through faded shards of glass. Only one wall remains, and that is hardly more than a shell with arched windows and fragments of stained glass. The other three walls are buried in mounds of greenery, completely crumbled or simply gone.

The huge trees bend and sway, seeming to cocoon the space, enveloping it in a cosy embrace, keeping it safe from the rest of the world. I wonder why it was built out here on the edge of the estate, so far from the house.

So far from everything.

There’s a small collection of grassy mounds to the side of the chapel, and it takes me a moment to work out that they’re headstones. In the middle of it all, is another gargoyle.

With a sense of surrealism settling over me, I reach out to stroke the gargoyle’s weathered stone form, tracing the intricate patterns carved into the plinth it rests upon.

This one is nowhere near as fearsome as the one outside the bathroom. Its mouth is closed, almost curling at the edges in a friendly smile, and its horns are much shorter. It sounds silly to say, this one seems smoother…softer than the other. Even though they’re both clearly made of stone. It’s newer looking too, not as weather-beaten as the other.

As my fingers brush against the rough texture of its wings, I feel a strange connection forming between us, as though we share some unspoken bond.

There’s peace here. The solid stone figure is cool beneath my fingertips, and something about that makes my worries melt away like an early morning mist.

With a contented sigh, I lean against the gargoyle’s sturdyframe. I’d read once that gargoyles were created for protection and to ward off evil spirits. For a moment, I imagine being enveloped by its protective embrace, shielded from the things that go bump in the night.

Sitting down on the soft grass beside one of the headstones, I brush away some of the covering moss. The details are now indistinguishable due to age and exposure to the elements, but once upon a time, someone would have mourned their loss where I’m now sitting.

The headstone itself stands weathered and solemn, a silent sentinel amidst the wildflowers and tangled vines, much like the gargoyle. I follow the engraved features with trembling fingers, feeling the stone beneath my touch.

Memories flicker in the recesses of my mind, elusive, like wisps of smoke. I think I can recall the funeral. A sea of sombre faces, the scent of lilies mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil. But what’s real or imagined? Is it a false memory from something I saw in a show once?

Beyond that, there’s a void. Only a blank space where clarity should reside. Did we gather around a graveside, tears mingling with raindrops as we said our final goodbyes? Or was it the sterile silence of a crematorium?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, a persistent ache in the depths of my soul. It disturbs me, not knowing where she rests.

Being unable to remember.

To visit her.

I long for closure, for the memories of laying her to rest. But most of all I yearn to apologise for that night…

Fatigue washes over me in gentle waves, pulling me under.

The cool grass is soft beneath my palms as I run them back and forth over the ticklish fronds.

Daisies dot the greenery with their cheery white petals and joyous yellow centres. They bring a smile to my lips. Plucking and weaving, I make daisy chains with trembling hands.

I remember the laughter, the whispered secrets sharedbetween mother and daughter, before she became too important for simple things like daisy chains. Each delicate blossom becomes a tether to the past, a fragile thread connecting me to memories of her.

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