The Writers' Circle

The water splashes down on my face. The raindrops caress my closed eyes, cooling them. They've been aching. They're tired of seeing. There is too much to see, not enough to feel. I want to feel something. That's why I'm out here, barefoot, in the middle of a stormy, wind tossed day. Mud closes over my feet. It feels not unpleasant. Like being six years old again and not caring how dirty I got. Because mum would always sort it out.
Can she sort this out? The mess I'm in now. She stands in the warmth of the doorway. She tried calling to me. She came to me with an umbrella. But I don't want to go inside. Not just yet.
I open my eyes slightly and see that dad has joined her. They stare at me with eyes full of nothing but concern. I wish they could help. But if I let them, I might hurt them.
After Jessica's death, we moved house. Mum couldn't stand to be in that area. I heard her say to dad that every time she went out she could see the blood running in rivets down the street. We moved out of the city suburbs. We moved to a town by the sea. You can feel it now. The chill sea wind that pierces your chest with ice knives.
An hour passes, two hours. The wind dies down. The rain lessens. Mum and dad stay diligently by the door, waiting for me. I wish they would go. They should keep themselves warm. They need to be careful. I know what I'm doing. They don't.
I look across to my neighbour's garden. So wet and forlorn. It hurts my eyes again. It hurts because I know what happened to it.

August 1987
I remember it being summer. I remember the warmth on my back so clearly. I was just sitting in the front garden watching people pass behind the garden fence. I had become fascinated with how people walked. Some had a kind of swagger. Some were carried by the feet, others by their nose, some by their breasts. I giggled at the funny walks but pretended to look solemn when they turned to look back at me. 
That was why I was the first one to see the removal van entering the drive next door. I remember the redness of it. It reminded me at that age of fire engines and clowns. Now when I remember it, all I see is blood.
I sat there watching them all morning. I don't know why but the business of other people, watching them move about with their heavy loads, fascinated me. I watched them pulling along an old sofa and a beautifully shabby desk. I saw them carrying boxes of seemingly delicate things. I saw dust clouds bloom up as the workers dragged huge carpets out of their van. But most of all I watched the man who was at the centre, orchestrating it all.
He was a very tall man. Tall and thin. He had wispy hair that seemed as though it would blow off his head. He had a scarf wrapped around his scrawny neck, a reddy brown colour like autumn leaves. He never took it off. His skin was thin and looked like paper stretched over wire, like when we made sculptures at school. I estimated his age at about sixty odd but when he moved about it was with the energetic youth of an excited toddler. He rushed at people, yelled at them to hurry up. He had this funny habit that when something delicate and precious was being taken out of the van, he would stand right by it as it was being carried into the house, wringing his hands with his eyes wide. Both excited and worried at the same time.
I saw some of the contents of the delicate boxes when one of the men dropped it. The tall man was so angry. I almost laughed. I think he heard my chuckle because he turned slightly towards me but then went back to the other boxes. Inside this delicate box was books. These old, dirty books.
I sat there until mum called me in for lunch. Marie still had to come and drag me in though. 
"Honestly, Jo," Marie had sighed with a sisterly impatience. "They're just moving in."
But that didn't stop me watching him out the window for the rest of the day, until the sun had gone behind the far hills and the darkness had covered his tall, thin frame.