Page 3 of Taunting Tarran (Wild at Heart #1)
THE BUTCHERBIRD
Present day
This year marks a poignant milestone; it’s been twenty years since I made my escape from that dreaded place, and it still doesn’t feel real. Two decades have passed, filled with countless therapy sessions and thousands of pounds spent in search of “healing”.
I started therapy years ago, initially at twenty-three because of my mother’s constant criticism, and suffocating expectations.
I went because that’s what normal people did; suffer trauma, and then go to therapy.
In the end, five years of sessions with Gillian Gladwish had cost me a small fortune, and I was no better off, so I stopped going.
And so many of her remarks felt like bad stand-up routines or just plain rude.
‘Your problem,’ she would say, ‘is that you keep auditioning for a role in your mother’s drama.’ I just rolled my eyes. This wasn’t going anywhere, because the casting director is a lunatic.
For years I had convinced myself her crude behaviour was a veil for her genius – highly recommended by Anna the smart one in our group who couldn’t stop singing her praises.
I never did tell her I started seeing Gillian – that would have opened a can of worms of why , and when I stopped seeing the therapist, they’d also want to know why to that too, and the truth was, because half of the time I felt like I was paying to get roasted.
Fuck. Why did I stop going?
Oh, yes, because at the end of each session, I felt more like shooting the bitch. Therapy was supposed to be cathartic, not turning every session into a mental sparring match.
After the death of my grandfather, I wasn’t sure if I could trust myself anymore.
Back then, when he died, I didn’t even realise at just sixteen, I was capable of such dark acts, but every session with Gillian seemed to edge me closer to the unthinkable.
Therapy was supposed to heal, not ignite the already simmering rage.
That’s why I stopped talking to my mother, too, before I killed her .
With two dead bodies under my belt, I was one away from calling myself a serial killer.
Woman kills grandfather, mother, and the therapist that tried to help.
If only they knew.
Since my grandfather’s passing, I had become the sole beneficiary of his estate: Finca del Sombra (Estate of the Shadow), and in twenty years I have been reluctant to set foot back on Spanish soil, despite the many happy times I spent there.
Grandpa always told me stories that many centuries ago there had been a maiden called Isabella, known for her enchanting voice and deep love for Fernando, a young nobleman.
Their bond was as strong as ancient oaks despite their feuding families.
But then a decree forbade their union, and Isabella sought sanctuary in the forests and rolling hills, her song becoming a hope of harmony with nature.
Villagers called her “La Dama del Bosque” , a guardian of the natural world, and Grandpa said that she appeared only to those who showed respect and care for the land, offering wisdom and guidance.
Did you help me, Isabella?
Was it you that guided me to safety?
I practically grew up in Finca del Sombra , huddled in front of a log burner while Grandpa told me stories.
Sometimes we would sit around a crackling campfire with the children from the farmers after their day’s hard graft.
I remember the sky being a canvas of stars, filled with the scent of pine, and garlic.
While Grandpa and the farmers laughed, exchanging glasses of wine, me and the other children spent the evening darting in and out of the trees.
Our laughter echoing through the darkness as our elders’ faces were illuminated by the dancing flames of the fire.
Those are my memories, where our elders’ had twinkles in their eyes, and wore weathered, but comforting smiles, and weaved tales of heroic adventures and ancient legends.
We kids listened in rapt attention, our imaginations painting vivid pictures of knights and dragons, and mystic lands.
‘Tarran!’ they laughed. ‘ Ven a jugar con nosotros! Vamos a jugar a El Escondite Ingles.’
I have fond memories – ones I refuse to forget just because Mum wanted to leave and start a new life in England, dropping her Spanish surname as if embarrassed by her Spanish heritage.
I never understood it. Grandpa remained positive, even when she told him she had no intention of farming the estate; a 16 th century estate he worked every day on, and employed several farmers to assist with, to cover the ninety hectares of olive groves, meadows, mountains, and native forests.
I remember the finca’s layout - two storeys of stone. The ground floor was reserved for the rearing of livestock such as his goats and sheep, and the top floor was where we lived.
Thick walls of stone up to a meter thick insulated us in the winter months, while keeping the interior cooler in the summer.
I imagine now the beautiful exposed wooden beams are full of woodworm.
There were cats everywhere, lounging on every sun-drenched windowsill, too.
They prowled any shadowy corner of the farm, and curled up on steps.
They weren’t feral either, not the scrappy kind you might expect; they were well-fed and sleek.
Grandpa used to chuckle at them and explained their abundance was due to the plentiful food supply, which helped them multiply and, in turn, kept the rat population in check.
Chickens roamed freely, their feathered forms darting through the barren land and under the shade of ancient trees.
The quiet days filled with soft clucks and scratches as they pecked at the ground, blissfully unaware of the feline figures lounging nearby.
The cats, content and well-fed, watched the chickens with mild curiosity but made no move to disturb them - a harmonious co-existence, each species respecting the others’ space.
Mum and I could barely tolerate each other.
So when I was off school, I was visiting Grandpa, even if it was just for a short weekend.
I spent most of my childhood at Finca del Sombra .
When Grandpa died, that’s when our mother/daughter relationship really went sour.
Unbeknown to me, he had gifted me the entire property in his Will, and it’s been ten years since I last spoke to her, the last of our conversation once again ending in bitter discourse.
‘Finca del Sombra should have been mine,’ she seethed back then.
I snarled. ‘I don’t want to go through this again, Mum!’
‘You should give it to me.’
‘You never wanted it.’
‘That’s not true...’
‘Grandpa said you pretty much wanted nothing to do with the land,’ I replied, exasperated.
‘Well, no. I would develop it,’ she laughed.
‘And, that’s not going to happen. He loved that place.’ I shook my head.
‘You’re such a selfish bitch, Tarran.’
‘Mum?’
‘What?’
‘Fuck you!’
I might not want to live in Spain after what happened, but I’m not selfish.
Guilt.
Guilt is what plagues my thoughts. So when the lawyers and the estate agents came sniffing, I told them I’d be leaving it in the care of the farmers who already tended to the land and it would provide them and their families’ accommodation.
They can live off the land, as my grandpa had, and the balance from the cultivation would be deposited into a euro account, of which I have zero interest in accessing, as its sole existence came about because I shot my grandpa in the face.
‘Ms Pinegrove!’ small fingers tug at my sleeve, pulling me from my thoughts. The girl’s eyes, big and bright the kind that light up the room.
‘Yes, Alison?’ I smile as the five-year-old bounces up and down, cupping herself between the legs.
‘Can I go to the toilet?’
I smile, ‘Of course. Do you want me to come with you?’
She huffs. ‘No! I’m a big girl.’
‘OK, but take Susan with you, just in case.’
Children can be so innocent. ‘OK,’ she drawls. Her long lashes accentuated as her eyes drop, her chubby cheeks turning a beautiful shade of pink.
Swallowing, I put my memories of a life far behind me to the side, and I wipe away the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. Seeing these children every day, and being their teacher, enables me to hold back the nightmares as I struggle to hold onto my sanity, despite the recurring voices.
Eso es carino, abre la boca.
‘NO!’ I scream.
‘Ms Pinegrove?’ the children ask as Tommy’s hand closes around mine. My eyes are wide with shock as I blink forcing back the tears.
‘It’s OK...’ I nod.
Twenty years have gone by, and still I feel the urge to punish myself for what happened.
I live alone because most nights I’m thrashing around in the bed, screams clawing at my throat, my arms flailing and nails scratching at my skin until I’m bleeding.
A lifetime isn’t long enough to accept my freedom, because every night I’m taken back, trapped inside that cage, with some dirty, old farmer pissing in my face, my face that still had the contents of my grandpa’s head all over it.
And all I did was run. Run away from the other captives. I left them. I LEFT THEM.
I survived. Yet, all I want to do is fucking die.
Mum said it was Survivor’s Guilt. That’s as far as her help went.
She offered nothing else, no advice. I had to figure out everything on my own.
And it was only when I accidentally cut my finger chopping onions that the pent-up tension from all these years began to seep away.
In that moment, the haunting voices only quieted when I too was suffering, and that’s when I heard about The Lickerish Lounge.