I want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I belong here, as much as I don’t want to, I belong here. I try to ignore the icy tendrils of fear that grip my heart as I push open the rusty iron gates knowing that she is here waiting for me in the distance, past the treeline where the graveyard sits hidden from the road.
I won’t allow the dread to take hold. I can do this. I’m strong. I’m not that frightened little girl anymore. ‘I hope she’s late’. The thought creeps across my mind, unbidden. I know better, she is never later. Sure enough, there she is, leaning against the willow tree, long red talons the colour blood contrasting viciously with the pale trunk of the tree. She knows I’m there, this woman with the face of an angel but a heart so withered and blackened that it would make Satan himself weep.
‘Hello Lola’ says my Aunt ‘It’s time to go home’.