The Dump

The man and his son drove up to drop off the old wardrobe that had been collecting dust for decades. They had tried selling it, but it was rickety, worn and no one was interested. After months of having the ad placed in the classified section, it was time to dispose of it. As the man drove his truck through mountains of tires, piles of mattresses and mounds of debris, they found the place for furniture. He and his son got out of the truck to unload and they heard the shouting and crying. Looking around they noticed her. Tears stained her face and she was throwing rusty cans and balled up paper. She kept shouting she was tired and it was time to leave the garbage where it belonged. The son could feel her distress and wanted to give her a hug, but inside he knew that she was tired of having her hurt enveloped around her and was throwing all of the pain away.

She had told them. First she had had the flashbacks and, tip toeing around the skeletons, she asked questions to confirm the details. The bathing suit, the bed spread, his looming leer. She asked the questions that she thought may clarify if she were crazy or not and upon learning their truth, she just felt crazier. She attempted to drown her sorrows, drown her memories, drown her thoughts. They refused to let go and keep pulling her down into the abyss of the sea. On breaking point, she confessed to those who had vowed to protect her when she came into this world. She had told them. And she wanted to be told she was creating it all in her head. She thought it would go away if it was only there because she imagined it. Instead, she was told that there had been ideas and inklings that this was going on, but everyone thought it was better to look the other way. To wait until it was no longer happening. To wait until her mind protected itself and blocked it out. Except that there was a slight break in the wall and the pressure of a little girl wanting to be free spewed out like the pungent mess of a septic tank. She tried to suppress it. Pretend it wasn’t real. Until she couldn’t any longer and it was all confirmed to her that it had happened. She had told them.

She felt liberated at first. She thought that justice would be served. She would no longer have to continue the masquerade. Except she was told that it was better to keep the facade and rebuild the wall. She felt betrayed by the two people she was supposed to trust the most.

She spent an afternoon sitting at the table across from the monster that hid in her closet and couldn’t deal anymore. She felt weighed down and had to break free. She was old enough to protect herself now. And that afternoon decided to bring her baggage to the place it deserved to be left. Instead of unpacking it, she was throwing it all away. She drove to the place where it belonged, calmly parked her car and took her mind in her own hands. And began throwing all the hurt and pain and anger into the raw mixture of mouldy bread, broken eggshells and rotted banana peels. It felt better and she began to make it part of her weekly rituals.

The man and his son were not the first to see her in this vulnerable state. They wouldn’t be the last. But she felt confidant with each passing week that she was lessoning the shit she carried around with her and soon would have nothing left for the garbage men to sort and the scavengers to devour.