When mother died, I was very young. Father says I was so young, I wouldn’t remember her. But I do. I remember the way her hair smelled. I remember how it felt to lean on her breast. I remember the sound of her voice as she read me fairy tales.

Father also says that I was too young to remember the accident. But I do. I remember it all. I remember the shrieks of fear. I remember the way the knife flashed as it sliced down. I remember the warm blood dripping from my mother’s cleaved head onto my own.

Of the two memories, I like the second one the best. Thinking of her death makes me feel good and warm inside. I was sad she was gone, of course. But I am happy I watched it happen.

I once told my father I remembered and what I remembered. He brought me to a doctor. But this doctor didn’t poke me with needles or examine my ears. He just asked lots of questions. Father stopped talking about mother after that. But it didn’t matter, because I still remember.

I also remember the day I died. That too was wonderful. Father found me as I was taking some feathers away from a bird I had caught. I had made catching birds into a kind of game. At first I was just catching them, but I wanted something to remember each catch. So I would collect their feathers. And the blood still on the ends of the feathers looked so pretty.

“You must stop!” He insisted. He looked so frightened.

“Why?” Was all I could think to ask.

Later that night, Father came into my room and told me that I was going to go somewhere to make lots of friends. I asked where, but he put a pillow over my face. I tried to stop him, but I felt something cold on my neck. This time, I made him remove the pillow. I did not scream, but gurgled a laugh as I watched the blood flow from my neck, down my chest, and onto the blankets. It was so beautiful.

Now, I wait by my grave for the friends my father has promised me. At first, he didn’t want to keep his promise, but I made him change his mind. I’ll have so many friends, I could have a collection of them. And when I do meet them, I know exactly what we will play.



* * *

Tawny Demase grew up in the Great Northwest, always dreaming of things greater than reality. For the lack of mythical powers, she settled with imagining all kinds of scenarios; Whether they be adventures on the high seas, crawls through crepuscular dungeons, or romances within fantastical palaces, Tawny delighted in every venture. Naturally, this led to sharing her mind’s rambles to any willing ear. Now, she aspires to share her stories with a grander audience, you.

MY NEW COLLECTION by Tawny Demase, 4.8 out of 5 based on 4 ratings

About Bosley

Bosley Gravel is a hack.
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