The black funeral dress on my bed lay starkly against the quilt she and I had sewn together three years before. I ran a hand along the seams between faded squares of blues, greens, and grays, feeling her straight stitches along my crooked ones. Her rich laughter and knowing touch lingered in this blanket, and if I concentrated hard enough, I could forget; if I forgot, I could remember. 

The feeling of newer fabric shattered the illusion. I clenched the dress, sending cascades of creases along its depressing length, hating it and what it would mean today. The thought of wearing such a drab thing sent keen wrenches of betrayal through me. I could practically see her disapproval in my mind’s eye: her eyes would narrow, her lips would purse, and she would stare at you ‘till you cowered under the full force of her displeasure. She would let a few agonizing seconds pass before sniffing haughtily, her arms crossed and nose turned up. 

“I prefer green,” she would say. 

I smiled in spite of myself. Tossing aside the hateful garb, I decided I was in need of a wardrobe change. \~(‘ . ‘)~/ 

My dramatic dress reveal hadn’t gone over well. I had smuggled it in under my long black coat, and by the time my parents had noticed, it was too late to go back. It had taken my father a full five minutes to form a coherent word, his expression getting darker by the second. Finally, he hissed under his breath, “Why green?!” I looked up at him innocently.  

“It’s the color of life,” 

He seemed to be at a loss for words at the apparent ludicrousy of my statement, giving me a fierce kind of pleasure. All he cared about was appearances, not that we were here to mourn -  

“She’s dead, Mara!” 

Those three simple words were the staff, feather, and blade of the spear that broke into the walls I had built around my heart. For a split second, the storm of my grief broke from the confines of the dark, disturbing place I’d been desperately trying to block off. My vision blurred. I clenched my hands into fists, my nails cutting half-moons into my palms. The pain gave me the strength to shove the storm down and lock it back behind the ice curling blessedly numbing fingers around my heart. I blinked. Once. Twice. I gazed at my father frostily, watching his eyes narrow slightly and a silent challenge rise under the merciless scrutinization of my hard, emotionless facade.  

“It’s what she would have wanted, Marcus,” my mother whispered. The words, murmured so quietly as to be mistaken for distant conversation, carried considerable weight. I whirled around to face her. She was studiously examining the back of the next pew, avoiding my gaze. The sad black funeral dress she wore didn’t quite fit her, and her shoulders slouched forward in an unconscious effort to make herself invisible. Her hands clenched and unclenched anxiously; it seemed as if she were trying not to flee. My mother reminded me of a little bird in that moment, scared and facing circumstances far bigger than herself. She slouched even further under the combined force of my stunned gaze and my father’s calculated one, clearly wishing the floor would swallow her up. Never, in the entirety of my sixteen years on this planet, had I heard her speak up for anyone. Not even for me. 

My father grumbled under his breath (“Color of life, my pants!”) before sinking into grudging silence. That had also never happened. I didn’t know what to think. The tension grew between my father and I, the air thickening with heated things left unsaid. This was going to be. . . trying. \~(‘ . ‘)~/ 

“Mara, would you like to say something?  

The words were distorted, like I was underwater. I blinked. The lights were too harsh. Even when I closed my eyes, they remained burned into the insides of my eyelids. I gripped the sides of the podium as a wave of dizziness almost knocked me over. What was the question again? 

“Mara? Mara!” 

I stared down at my hands, which I noticed were trembling slightly. The defiant, stylish girl from an hour ago had deserted me when I had most needed her. The reality of the coffin and her picture on a stand had cut me to my very soul and sliced into the icy covering on my heart. My grandmother’s long, gray streaked brown hair was woven into a french braid perfected through years of practice. Her face was tanned from long days in the garden, and her head was tilted to the side, a sure sign that someone had said something incredibly stupid, the barest hint of a smile tucked into the corners of a mock stern mouth. Her brown eyes were flecked with gold, and they were filled with . . . life. My blood pounded in my ears; my vision faded to a pinprick. I felt myself beginning to slip back into that dark place; the storm inside roared in anticipation of my weakness, eager to consume me.  

A stern, hard hand clamped onto my shoulder, startling me from my reverie, and I darted a glance up into the eyes of my father. To anyone else, the expression he leveled at me would’ve been indecipherable. I wasn’t just anyone else.  

Do what you’re told. Now. The familiar silent command roused me partially from my daze. I managed a smirk, then turned to face the congregation. Beyond the glaring lights was a sea of black. How solemn they appeared; these people were here because they claimed to have known her in life, but their manner of dress gave them away. I again saw her disapproval, and was struck by a rush of bleak mirth.  My father’s nails, suddenly talonlike, were digging into my shoulder, the pain forcefully keeping me anchored.  

“I apologize for my daughter’s muteness” he began, voice coated in false sadness. “My mother-in-law and her were quite . . . close. Of course, this is difficult for all of us.” The congregation made a collective noise of sympathy, and I was overcome by a sudden bout of nausea.    

My father droned on, giving an increasingly tragic speech about the “grief” in the family, but I didn’t hear him. Run away, whispered a little voice from somewhere in the back of my mind. I took a step forward. Run away. I took another. Run away run away run- I took off, breaking out of my father’s hold. I launched off the raised platform at the front of the church auditorium; for a moment, the air pushed up against me, and I felt like I might fly. My feet hit the ground hard and I stumbled, my heart pounding in my throat and panic clouding my senses. I could hear my father screaming behind me, the monster temporarily revealed, and I felt my mind spiraling, flitting in all directions. My eyes darted up and connected with my grandmother’s; her picture stared back. The world snapped back into focus, and I flew,  my gloriously green dress billowing behind me, riding on the wings of my grief away from the screaming voices behind me demanding that I land. 

 \~(‘ . ‘)~/  

I ran faster and farther than I ever had before. My flats slapped against the pavement in an unsteady rhythm; my dress kept sliding uncomfortably between my knees; my tangled blond hair stuck to my sweaty neck; each breath tore itself painfully from my lungs, as if trying to flee ahead of me. I knew that if I stopped for even a moment, I wouldn’t be able to start again. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other again, and again, and again, and again.  

It wasn’t until I saw an achingly familiar path that I realized where I was. I slowed, painfully aware now of the burning in my chest and the aching of my feet. I stopped entirely in front of the path, hands on my knees, wheezing; I watched a bead of sweat drip off my nose and splatter onto the pavement. A maniacal grin split my face as I realized how far I had run, a feat made more impressive considering my awful choice of footwear. In between gasps, I glanced behind me for any overly righteous pursuers. All clear. I straightened, breathing in deeply despite the stitch in my side. The air here felt cleaner, cooler, sweetly fragrant with the smell of roses. My crazed smile turned softer, and I felt the storm behind the ice quiet for the first time in weeks. With a last look toward the street, I turned onto the path and walked on shaky legs to the place I felt had always been my true home. \~(‘ . ‘)~/ 

I had always imagined that if a fair, magical creature fell from its world into ours and created a place so lovely as to satisfy its longing for its ethereal homeland, my grandmother’s garden would be that place. The path started at the edge of the road, between her depressingly normal mailbox and the forest that marked the end of civilization. It wasn’t very wide and was paved with stone tiles that had cracked under the merciless onslaught of age. The edge of the path on the “civilized” side of things was marked with colorful roses, while the “wild” side was lined with enormous tangled berry bushes. On sunny summer days long gone, I had strolled leisurely down this path, enjoying the sweet scents of the flowers and savoring the strawberries and raspberries that tasted like flavored sunshine.  

Today, surrounded by the plant life that my grandmother had spent precious time coaxing into bloom, I felt a bittersweet pang. Was it my imagination, or did the roses not smell as sweet? Was it the bitter tang of grief turning the strawberries sour on my tongue? Everywhere I looked, it seemed as if everything were a little less. . . vibrant; perhaps they were as saddened as I was to be alive when the person who had cared so deeply for them wasn’t any longer. I felt my protective icy covering on my heart steadily melting, and the condensation somehow found its way out as a stray tear. I hurried on, furiously scrubbing it away despite there being no judging eyes to see me. 

At last, I reached her home. I stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. The path stretched on right up to her front door, where it stopped obediently. Looking at the house now, it was strange to think that my mother had come from here. She had never spoken of the place where she had grown up. I had always envied that she had; I could’ve stayed forever in this sunlit clearing where the house was jauntily placed. It was a little worn in places, a little broken in others, but through the lenses of loving memories it seemed to me more beautiful and precious than a whole host of mansions and castles.  

I cautiously made my way along the path, stepping aside neatly to avoid a particular tile infamous for tripping unsuspecting persons and jumping on another my grandmother had sworn always gave good luck. Too soon I stood before the door. It was a perfectly ordinary door, a little worn like the rest of the house but nevertheless in good shape; in that moment, however, I regarded it with all the wariness I would give a king cobra. Through that door was my grandmother’s home, with my grandmother’s knick knacks, my grandmother’s food, even my grandmother’s ratted old slippers that she refused to toss. All would be just as I had left it last but without the person that had given those things meaning in the first place.  

My hand moved robotically, dipping under a loose tile to pluck the extra key hidden there. Before I could stop myself, I slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Grabbing the handle, I pushed the door open. The sorrowful creak of the door sent goosebumps across my skin; unable to stop myself, I glanced behind me. The flowers and leaves of the trees swayed in a breeze. They almost seemed to wave at me; whether it was in encouragement or in warning, I couldn’t tell. Gulping, I faced forward and plunged into the house.  

\~(‘ . ‘)~/ 

Without her rich laugh echoing in the halls, the house seemed to be an empty shell. Dust swirled lazily in the sun that entered from windows generously interspersed throughout the house. I stepped carefully, senses on high alert. I passed the kitchen on the left and the living room on the right; I had spent so much time in both that neither needed more than a glance. My heart was nearly free of the icy shield that had saved me earlier, and it now began thumping loudly in my ears. I felt as if there was something here I needed to find, whether it be closure or an end to this terrible pain in my soul.  

I made a beeline for the stairs, wincing as they squawked in protest to my weight. The landing was dim; I could just make out the three doors leading off to empty bedrooms. I shivered, partly from the silence of the house and partly from the sweat drying slowly all over my body. I tucked a ragged piece of hair behind an ear, straightened my dress as best as I could (who knew green was terrible at hiding creases), and, holding my breath, I marched into the holy sanctuary of my grandmother’s bedroom. \~(‘ . ‘)~/ 

Surveying the room from the doorway, it appeared to me that everything was as it should. I walked up to her dresser, smiling as I noticed the bracelet I had made in kindergarten displayed proudly as the gem of her collection. The smile froze when I noticed the envelope next to it. It was laying face down, awaiting to be sealed shut. My grandmother must not have had time to glue it. I reached for it, fingers shaking, everything in my being sure it was for me. My fingers dipped inside the envelope, pulling out a beautiful piece of stationary my grandmother only used for important notes. Heart pounding, I unfolded the letter and began to read.  

Dear Marcus,  

My heart plummeted and rose into my throat at the same time; why had she written to my father?!? Despite what he had claimed at the funeral, he and my grandmother definitely didn’t like each other. All sense of manners forgotten, I sank onto the bed and continued.  

We have never been on good terms. I know you’re not good for my daughter, and you didn’t like that I was an opinionated woman. However, what you did is utterly unacceptable. You do realize what your actions have made you?  

I gasped, unable to stop myself. My eyes were glued to the page, and nothing short of the sun blowing up would have been enough to tear my eyes away.  

You may have broken my daughter, but you will never break me. I think you’ve realized that, and that’s why things have come to this. You thought I would never find out, but you’re not nearly as sly as you think you are. Even now, the poison tea you gave me is killing me.  Congratulations, you’re a murderer.  

The sound of a door slamming open downstairs shocked me into dropping the paper. I stood, frozen, as I listened to the slow, heavy steps of a man downstairs. My heart, which had long thawed, was now throwing itself against my ribcage, desperate to escape impending doom.  

“Oh Mara~ I know you’re in here.” My father’s sickly sweet voice sang out. There was no room for thought. I threw myself into my grandmother’s closet and felt around for the fake wall I had discovered in my younger days of hide and seek. I could hear him on the stairs now, steps screaming in agony as he pushed off of them. He didn’t rush, assured in his predatory way that he would hunt me down. My fingers scrambled desperately for the seam, trying to remember where it was. When I found it, I pulled it open quickly and threw myself into the small space behind it. Yanking on the string attached on the back, I was immediately thrust into darkness. Between the dust, cobwebs, and my sweat, my dress was quickly becoming irreparably ruined.  

A moment later, I heard his footsteps in the doorway. I pressed a shaking hand to my mouth.  

“Mara, sweetie, why did you have to run away? So many people are worried about you.”  

You made me look bad and people will be talking. You disobeyed me.

“I’m not mad; I promise. I just want to talk.” 

There will be consequences. 

My heart was beating so loudly, I was sure he could hear me. There wasn’t any airflow in my little hideout, and the air was quickly becoming stale. My breath was coming too fast, but I didn’t dare remove my hand from my mouth for fear of making a sound. I could hear him stepping into the room, my mind flitting this way and that with terror at my imminent discovery. My head was still reeling from what I had found. If my father was angry enough at my grandmother for not submitting to him to murder her, what was stopping him from doing the same to me? That letter changed everything. The letter. I hadn’t finished it. With my free hand I patted around as quietly as I could, then a tad more frantically. Where was it?!?  

“My my my, whatever is this?” I heard the sound of paper scraping the ground and my blood turned to ice in my veins. The ax was slowly lifting above my head, the faceless executioner indifferent to my desperate pleas for mercy. The edge of the blade gleamed to the sound of the paper being unfolded slowly, and I desperately squeezed my eyes shut. This was it. He’d realize that grandmother had known his black deed, and he’d realize that I had seen the letter. To get away with murder, he would have to contend with me first. My green dress was about to be worn for two funerals. Soft, quick steps surprised me, and I opened my eyes into the blackness.  

“Marcus, she’s not here. We should go.” My mother? Where had she come from?!?  

“I beg to differ,” my father replied. “I found this on the floor, which makes me think our little girl was snooping around.” I jumped a little at how his tone curdled when he referred to me.  

“Don’t be silly,” my mother whispered. “She’s not here.” There was a sudden, tense silence. My breath caught in my throat. My mother had just called my father silly. That was twice today she had spoken up against him. What was going on? My musing was interrupted by quick decisive steps followed by an awful crack and a cry of pain.  

“Not so silly now, am I?” My father murmured, so low my ears strained to pick it up through the thin wall. “You’re forgetting your place, Samantha.” He drew out her name in a promise of violence. I shuddered. He allowed a moment to pass before he stepped back. I heard the sound of paper crumpling. “There’s a few places we’ve yet to check for Mara. Is she. . .” I heard quick steps, “under the bed?” I heard the blankets being thrown back, and I pushed myself into the farest confines of my hiding place, trying to get as far away as possible.  I think a spider was on my shoulder, but I didn’t dare move. “Is she. . .” I heard fabric being swept back, “behind the curtains?” A whimper escaped before I could stop myself. A pause. “Or maybe. . .” the steps were closer now, making a bee line right for me. “she’s in the closet?” He pulled open the doors. This was true fear. I was shaking uncontrollably; the executioner’s ax was falling on me now; the blade drew a drop of blood from the back of my neck. Did I close the fake wall all the way?!? I didn’t dare move to check. I scrunched my eyes shut, praying desperately that he wouldn’t find me.  

“Hmmm. She isn’t here. Unless. . .” his voice seemed more distant, as if he were looking elsewhere, “there are secrets in this house you haven’t shared with me, Samantha.” Any hope I had of not being discovered shriveled up. My mother had grown up in this house; she had to know about this secret place. She had already angered my father; I couldn’t count on her to save me. I had to save myself. I imagined his fingers reaching slowly for the fake wall, sliding across the seams, pulling it open to find- 

“None. It’s just a regular house.” My eyes stretched as wide as they could go and then wider still. Please believe her please believe her please please please- 

“Well then,” the floor creaked as he stood up, ”it seems we are done here.” He slowly walked away, pausing by where my mother had to be. He murmured something too low to hear, but the message was clear enough. He then turned tail and left, making his way down the stairs and out of the house.  The entire structure seemed to breathe with relief; I breathed along with it. He was gone, but he had the letter with him. I was only temporarily safe.  

“Mara,” my mother murmured, and I tensed up again. “I know you’re here. I just want you to know that . . .” she paused, “that I am sorry for failing you as a mother.” She paused again, seeming to wrestle with herself. “Your grandmother was right; I need to do something about your father. For your sake, and mine.” Without another word, she left.  

Even when the house went completely still, I didn’t move from my hiding spot; fear kept me paralyzed. Finally, I worked up the courage to push open the wall and venture out into the big bad world. Even though I knew both parents were gone, I couldn’t stop myself from looking around nervously; that was when I noticed the paper. My father had dropped it by the closet, and it lay forgotten and crumpled. Working carefully to flatten it, I read the final lines: You may have gotten rid of me, and you may have broken my daughter, but mark my words. You will never, ever, ever, break Mara. She will bring you to justice. Ta ta ~  Signed, Meredith Tay.  

With that, my heart shattered into a million pieces, and I crumbled to the ground sobbing. Even when my crying had stilled and my eyes had finally dried, I remained curled up on the floor, unable to bring myself to move. Time passed. When I finally looked up, it was evening; however, it was also the dawn of my plan for justice. I stood up, glancing down at my ruined dress. I had just survived the worst day of my life. Even though it was dirty, torn, and soaked through with sweat, the green, my color of life, shone through. I closed my eyes, breathed, opened them, and smiled wickedly into the mirror. A warrior looked back at me. I may be broken, I may be grief-stricken, but nothing, nothing, would stop me getting justice for my grandmother.