By Elena Smith & Lauren Pulh, Year 10
She stared intently at his grave, raindrops splattering onto the cracked granite, causing the mud to slowly drip down onto the damp grass. She looked to her left and saw a marigold, placed next to his headstone. By now it was as good as dead; its once amber petals were camouflaged with the soil. Presumably, she thought, someone from the church had left it there, as she was certain it could not have been her.
She reminisced of their moments together: dancing in fields of scarlet poppies, swaying gently in the summer breeze as he held her hand. Moments like those abled her to forget the grueling and sombre world she lived in. She thought of their trips to Paris, the city of love, as they ran through the cobblestone streets in bright yellow rain ponchos, laughing, too in love to be aware of the odd glances and disapproving looks they received. She thought of the beauty of their young love, carefree and spontaneous.
She saw a glimpse of her reflection in a puddle the rain had formed. What she saw was not the same person who loved that man. She saw her dead ends and tangled, brittle, jet-black hair. Her cerulean blue eyes, once filled with hope, had turned ice cold and emotionless. Her body was scrawny, and her legs were covered in bruises and red scratches. A drop of rain fell into the puddle and she was brought back to reality as the water in the puddle rippled. She stood in shock and dismay as she saw the person she had become.
She realised she had forgotten a very important object at her house, and without further thought, she left in a hurry, worried she might not get back in time. She hastily ran to her car, an old, beaten-up, rusting green auto with one headlight cracked and hanging on its side. She leapt into the driver’s seat and drove through the little village streets so fast that anyone passing by might not have even noticed she was there at all. The tires screeched like a dying child every time she made a sharp turn, and the entire car threatened to flip onto its side. She was driving so fast, she hadn’t noticed the chestnut coloured squirrel which was hopping to the other side of the road. A trail of blood followed her car, although any sign of death was quickly washed away with the heavy rainfall, erasing any trace of evidence. She was driving very fast, but looking back for a moment and thinking, maybe she did have time to stop for the squirrel. Maybe she just didn’t want to.
She arrived at her front doorstep drenched and fumbled with her keys trying to open her door with the untrustworthy lock. Finally it clicked open and she tiptoed in as if hiding from somebody, or something. As she searched for her very important object, she came across old photo albums, covered in dust.
She flipped to the first page and saw herself smiling at the camera on a beach whilst he stared at her with a loving gaze. Their first ever trip together, to Cuba. She flipped through the next couple pages and saw her life in flashes of bright colours, and of course, he was in every picture. She slammed the book shut and continued looking through her house in search of what she so desperately needed.
She walked into her laundry room in hope of finding it there, but instead was hit with an overwhelming stench of death. In the middle of the white floor tiles lay a bright yellow rain poncho stained with crimson blood. In horror she dashed out the room and continued her search elsewhere. Perhaps she wasn’t shocked at the blood stained poncho, only at why it was there in the first place.
She hurried upstairs to her bedroom, the old oak wooden steps creaking as she did. She threw her blankets all over the floor and hysterically searched every corner of the room. By now she was no longer drenched because of the rain, but because of her tears running down her puffy cheeks. She sat down in defeat next to her wall and stared across the room into her mirror.
“It’s over” she muttered to her reflection.
She got up and walked slowly to her garage and grabbed the kerosene stored in a grey bottle. She poured it all around and in her house, slowly, and carefully. She stepped outside and grabbed the packet of matches in her coat pocket.
For the first time in seven years she smiled as she watched all of her memories and past self burn down into ash.
She slowly walked back down to the gravestone and saw the flashing red and blue lights. She walked up the hill and held her hands out for the police to cuff her.
“Sarah Whitlocke, you are under arrest for the murder of your husband, Silas Whitlocke”
“It was an accident, I swear!” Sarah cried out.
Maybe Sarah did really, accidentally kill her husband. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe his death was exactly what she had intended.
