OUR MULTI-TALENTED TEAM MEMBER, ARTIST AND AUTHOR DAWN TREACHER, TAKES ON THE FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE

Painting by Dawn Treacher

BEFORE

It is only rented, but I love it. Its windows and door painted duck egg blue, the back steps leading down to a mature garden, its borders a mass of purple spears, soft yellow petals and lush green leaves. I find myself sitting on the bench just listening. No busy road, no hum of traffic, no footsteps of late night revellers walking the pavement after dark outside my window. It’s as blissful as a new beginning should be.

Each room I carefully painted, removing all trace of those who had been before me, just as I’d left nothing of myself back where once I had been; I’ve never lived in the countryside before. I still marvel at the freshness of the air, the pavements free of litter, the wide sweeping skies that stretch to the distance with nothing but swathes of green fields and hedgerows for as far as I can see in one direction and the roofs of the village in the other.

Only once before so far have I taken the bus to the market town. I sat near the front, watching through the window. No one knows me, that’s the way I want it to be, they only see what I decide to show; my hair newly cut to my shoulder, colour which softens my face, a style which covers my forehead, shields the birthmark which when I was younger I tried to scrub away. I smiled when someone caught my eye and politely thanked the driver, just as the other passengers did before me. I walked the street, peering through shop windows, lingering over the market stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables, cheeses and handmade gifts. Those that glanced at me saw a woman most likely in her early thirties, confident in her stride, softly spoken in her speech. I’d dropped my accent, perfected my pronunciation. I’d researched my new persona as if it were a role in a film, a part to be played. By the time I returned from town with fresh shopping in my bag, I’d absorbed a little bit of my new home, whilst revealing nothing of my true self, the person who now had crafted a new lie, what I hoped to be a perfect one, one that even the more observant of those who will meet me will never suspect.

Now I knelt in my garden, plucking the few weeds which have infiltrated the flower bed beneath my window. They’d hidden amongst the prettiest of flowers, tucked beneath their leaves. But I know what can lurk in the shadows of life, what threatens those who fail to see the dangers, for I am that danger, if the newspapers are to be believed. The wicked child that killed her own parents. Born evil, they said. She bears the mark of the devil upon her forehead.

I relish the freedom I’ve finally been granted. My new name suits me, just as here in this garden I finally feel that I may live, not as those who were quick to condemn me would wish me to live, but as I’d once dreamed of living, as a child, before, before it all began.

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COMING SOON: On Wednesday 7th May, we have our guest author, John Clewarth.

John will share a couple of chapters from his novel, 'The Incredible Quest of Charlie Oddie'.