The Dare Collection: March 2018. Nicola Marsh

on outings as a family and he’d kept long hours, coming home late from the building site to sit on the couch in front of the TV, more interested in the news than Remy and me.

      We’d done our homework in the kitchen, with Mum pottering around, content to listen to the recount of our days. She’d ply us with snacks and make us laugh, her impulsive hugs growing more frequent the more Dad withdrew.

      On the rare Sundays he was home, I had a vague recollection of being shunted into the backyard with Remy to play while they talked in the house. Though Mum wouldn’t last long inside and she’d soon join us on the back lawn, where we’d play tag or cricket.

      Until that fateful day when I’d heard raised voices and my first instinct was to protect Mum. She never shouted, so for her voice to reach me in the furthest corner of the backyard meant things were bad. Remy had been at a friend’s birthday party, leaving me to decide whether I should keep weeding or check if Mum was okay.

      I chose the latter. And what I overheard explained so much.

      I’d hidden behind the back door as the argument escalated, frozen in shock, wishing I were bigger so I could punch my father and knock him out for saying such hateful things.

      Tears had burned my eyes but I’d refused to cry. I needed to be strong. For Mum.

      She’d spied me when she’d rushed out the back door, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her mouth trembling. She’d gathered me close, squished me in the way she always did, and I’d felt her shaking. She’d said she had to go for a drive and she’d bring me back my favourite humbug lollies.

      She never came back.

      Her car had veered off the road and into a tree less than two kilometres from our house. The police hadn’t been able to explain the cause of the accident but I knew. She’d been so distraught by the disgusting, vile accusations hurled by my father, she hadn’t been concentrating on the road.

      Thankfully, brake marks and the pattern of skid showed she’d tried to avoid the tree, because I couldn’t have handled the fact she’d been hurting so badly she would’ve abandoned me to that monster.

      That day when she got in her car, I remember being scared, left alone with Dad after what I’d overheard.

      Little did I know that hour would turn into five miserable years where I’d tolerated whatever the old bastard dished out, wishing every single day that he’d been the one to die instead of Mum.

      Surprised to find my eyes moist with unshed tears, I pulled into a parking spot and composed myself before heading into the cemetery.

      He didn’t have a fancy gravestone. Remy had opted for a small plaque that simply had his name, date of birth and death, and RIP. Rest in peace my ass. I hoped he was squirming in hell, hopping around to avoid the flames.

      I stood over the plaque, glaring at it, resisting the urge to kick it. Why should he rest in peace when I’d had nothing close to peace because of him?

      ‘You were a piece of work,’ I said, thrusting my hands in my pockets, rocking on the balls of my feet as if spoiling for a fight. ‘You were a mean, spiteful bastard that made my life hell. Which is where you’re at now and I hope you’re burning.’

      Stupid, talking to a piece of stone, but it somehow felt cathartic. So I continued.

      ‘Remember that time you locked me in the cellar because I didn’t eat my broccoli? Well, the joke was on you, because the first thing I did when you let me out was go dip your toothbrush in the toilet.’

      I grinned at the memory of my first rebellious act at ten, a few months after Mum died.

      ‘Then there was that time you made yourself a stack of strawberry pancakes and gave me half a bowl of dried apricots? Well, let’s just say there wasn’t just sugar in your tea every night, because some chalk dust might’ve found its way into your bowl.’

      I’d wished many times it could’ve been arsenic.

      ‘As for the endless beatings on my ass with that wooden spoon? I have a tattoo of your most precious possession, those stupid orchids, on both butt cheeks so every time I sit down I know I’m squashing them.’

      Childish, maybe, but those flowers had been my first tattoo and it’d made me feel so good I’d wanted more.

      ‘I knew you would’ve hated the tattoos so every time I got another one, it was a real up yours.’ I flipped the bird at the plaque, getting into the spirit of things. ‘Whenever I lay in that parlour, the needle piercing my skin, I thought of how you’d rant and rave and disapprove, and I didn’t feel a thing.’

      On a roll, I continued. ‘I hate you for destroying my trust in people. For making me believe I was unworthy. For making me feel I wasn’t good enough for anything or anybody. But you know what? I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m doing better than okay. And Remy’s a good guy. The best. So I guess I can be thankful you didn’t screw him up real good too. We’re happy. And that’s the best form of revenge I know, because you’re down there and there isn’t one damn thing you can do to me any more...’

      I trailed off, my legs surprisingly weak and my arms almost numb, like I was on the verge of fainting. I sank to my haunches, dropped my head and breathed deeply, in and out, until the dizziness passed.

      He deserved so much more vitriol, but I felt drained and I couldn’t summon any more hatred.

      I was done.

      Did I feel better? Maybe. Purging the past could only be a good thing.

      But I wouldn’t come back here. I’d said all that needed to be said. Who knew? Maybe I’d have the balls to confront Abby too now, and give her the closure she needed. It was the least I could do.

      Not tonight. Tonight, I needed to head back to the club, immerse myself in work and finish that aged whiskey I’d been keeping for a rainy day.

      The way I was feeling right now, it was pelting down.

      I stood, staring at the plaque one last time. ‘See you in hell.’

      I walked away without looking back.