Blooming in death

They say lay flowers on a loved one’s grave. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? What if they abused you from age of seven though, is it still socially expected then? My mother is nagging at me to go to the supermarket to buy some flowers for dad’s grave. But I don’t want to. Nor do I want to visit his grave. I am glad he is dead.

When I was younger, when I was called into his workshop “to help pass him the tools” I shivered every time. I knew what was about to happen. I did not quite understand what it was, but it came with pain after which led me to cry. I also had some urinary issues it led me to wetting the bed and sometimes even at school- causing further embarrassment.

My father died six weeks ago, from a heart attack. I am not surprised whether it was his alcohol consumption, or his greasy food intake that led to this, but either way I am glad. He will never touch me again. I have tried to tell my mother so many times, but she said “Your father looks after us, don’t make such gross accusations” and that was that.

It pierces through my eardrums as she shouts again “Millie! Can you go the shop please?”. I grab my purse and head out. It’s only a two-minute walk to the co-op on the corner. I stand there looking at the flowers and what they suggest to me. Shall I get red roses- to signify love, all the love I never received, only abuse. Should I buy yellow, for all my urine accidents? Shall I get white to denote the peace I now have but never had when you was here.

I bought a mixed bouquet if you are wondering. Mixed like my emotions. Mixed like my grief. But the outcome remains the same, I am glad he is dead. My mother was disappointed with the bunch anyway, she said I should have bought a bigger bouquet. Great, now I have to spend more money apparently on a man I still hate.

We walk to his grave, as we have done every week for the past six weeks now. Every time I express not wanting to go. I claim I am too upset by it all, although it barely shows. She lays them down and speaks to him. I stare in anger, my blood boiling in my veins, all this hatred consumes my body. All my mother has to say is “I will pick the flowers next week Millie.”