Day 1
Grandma said it would be okay. No one would care about the homeless kid, smoking dope and hanging out on the end of the street. They would ask their friends, “Hey, remember that dirty kid who always stole from the convenience store and gave us the creeps? Haven’t seen him in a while.”
Grandma said no one would look for the body. I’m glad for that. We didn’t bury it very deep.
Day 3
I had a nightmare last night. There were maggots in my bed and I was suffocating. I woke up and looked out the window, into the backyard. It was barely lit with that dying yellow yardlight, but I swear even in that darkness, I could see him staring up at me through the dirt.
Day 7
It’s been a week, and still no one’s asked. I think it’s fine.
If only I could sleep. Grandma doesn’t seem too bothered. What the hell has that woman seen? Must’ve been something about the war. She hasn’t told me much, but I didn’t get past grade school, so how could I know? All I’ve seen are the black and white photos in the attic.
Day 13
Turns out that the homeless kid has friends. Two punks, grandma said, high out of their f***ing minds, started asking questions. I hope they don’t bring trouble.
Day 14
Didn’t take long for everyone in the neighbourhood to start asking questions. But we live in one of those places, you know, where questions are answered but never reported. Thank Christ for that. Grandma thinks we might need to move it soon if there’s more sniffing around.
Day 23
We tried to un-bury it. Is that a thing? Well, Grandma seemed to understand the “decomposition”, she said. Again, must have something to do with that war. It was messy. I threw up in the bushes a few times. Grandma seemed impatient, but she didn’t yell at me, even after the cramping subsided.
I had to carry most of the weight. Somehow, it was heavier now. Maybe with all that dirt in the crevices… She said it might be the bloating.
Day 27
F***! They think she did it. Her. Of all the f***ing people on the planet, and they’re taking her in. As a suspect. They saw me but she told them I’m mental. The records will tell them that’s true, but how long until they come to me asking questions? I can’t lie as well as the old broad. What will I do??
Day 34
Body’s been found, half burned. Damn it. We thought we’d burned it, but the charred bones were enough to grab the attention of the dogs. Grandma was released from custody, but they’ve asked for her to come into the station again for questioning. What will I do? The poor old woman can’t handle much more of this, I’m sure.
Day 35
F****, f****, f****. She’s CONFESSED! She’s f***ing confessed to everything. She knew enough. I’d told her everything. She said it was her. When they asked why, she said she couldn’t remember. I’m the mental one, but she’s playing it off as though she’s senile.
Day 36
What will I do without grandma? I don’t have a job. Never finished school. What the shit am I gonna do with all this?
Day 40
Didn’t take long for the cops and all those legal people to gladly take an easy case. “Open and shut”, they’d said. She’s old, so the appointed lawyer seemed to think that would help with everything. At least, that’s what I got from all the legal jargon.
Day 42
She’s dead. FUCK. Dead. Gone. Now it’s just me, and no one’s gonna help me. Can’t tell the truth now.
They’re all happy. I know it. Heart attack, little senile old lady. Killed a homeless kid, and got caught. So long as they don’t ask who managed to carry it all the way from the garden, to that spot in the woods… Lucky we threw out the lighter and the gasoline and planted magnolias over that patch in the lawn.
If only grandma were here to stop them from stomping over the magnolias.