In response to the prompt ‘Enchanted’ (which I misread for ‘Enchantment’) at WritingThe200
When people hear that I grew up in a 19th century farmhouse they imagine enchantment and allure, blissfully ignorant of crooked floors and afterthought plumbing poorly placed, cracked wainscoting that bleeds ants, hornets in the attic and a dirt basement perfect for burying things you’re too embarrassed to throw away.
Night terrors and sleep paralysis I assumed were normal nightmares, I now know were so much more. As if my subconscious mind knew this was no safe place to trust with sleep. For 21 years I walked on broken glass eggshells arranged by parents who despised the reflection they saw in me, spitting image of girls in lace watching from the mantel.
Escape through marriage to the first boy-man who didn’t laugh when he met them, saw from where I came, glimpsed the demons lurking under pretty and asked me anyway.
We ran and ran to the edge of the earth where inhospitable climate proved perfect for shedding skin and deep restful hibernation.
And now, years older, I stand, shovel in hand, ready to toss ceremonial dirt on the plot of my father, ready to return to that house and dig up what’s left of the sisters I barely knew.