Page 62 of The Chaos She Brings

The door to the wardrobe rips open and she drags me out by my arm, throwing me to the floor.

“I’m sorry!” I cry out, not knowing what I’m apologising for but doing so anyway.

The cigarette in her hand mocks me. I know what’s coming before it happens.

She grasps a chunk of my hair, pulling me upright until her face is close enough for me to smell the vodka on her breath.

“Did you think I wouldn’t see?!” she screams at me. “You think hiding your mess would make it less obvious?”

The cigarette burns into the skin at my shoulder as she holds it to me. I squirm, desperate to get away but she’s strong. Too strong.

“Diana!” Dad shouts, his frame filling my doorway.

Mum hisses at him, “Fuck off Gary. This doesn’t concern you.”

Dad moves to step into the room. To save me. But she picks up my textbook from my bed, throwing it at him. Hard.

We both know that if he intervenes further, it will be worsefor him. He looks at me with sad eyes—an unspoken conversation between us, I nod, letting him know it’s okay. He retreats, leaving me alone with her.

Mum slaps my face before throwing me back to the floor. “You know I hate mess. I want this place spotless by the time I’m home from girls night.”

She hums to herself as she leaves the room.

Another memory surfaces.

The knife in dads hand drips with blood, the metal shining under the florescent lights of the kitchen. His face is one of pure shock—eyes wide, pale skin, sweat beading on his forehead—as he looks down at mum's lifeless form.

His gaze travels up to meet mine and we stare at each other.

Moments earlier she’d been screaming at him, she slapped him and picked up the knife, waving it around dangerously. He’d plucked the blade from her hand, but that just enraged her. She fought harder.

Then the knife was in her neck.

Without a word the two of us jump into action. I numbly go to the cleaning cupboard and pull out everything I can get my hands on. Dad comes back inside from the garden holding a chainsaw and I flinch.

The sound of ripping flesh fills the room alongside the steady buzz of the saw. Blood splatters fucking everywhere. It’s too much.

Dad starts putting pieces of mum into plastic bin bags, adding more and more layers until the blood is no longer seeping through to the outside. I start mopping up the worst of the blood, putting rag after blood-soaked rag into bags too.

Once the worst of the liquid is gone, I start spraying everything with bleach. The scent burns my eyes, my nostrils. It seeps into my pores.

It takes hours, but eventually, the place looks blood free. Neither of us has spoken in all that time.

“We need to dispose of the body,” Dad says, being the first one to break the silence.

“How do we do that?” My voice is cold, detached. I’m numb.

“We’ll dump it in the Thames. I’ll add some rocks to the bag so it doesn’t float back up.”

I nod. The two of us carry the black sacks to the car, I jump intothe passenger seat and Dad slides behind the wheel. The engine roaring to life beneath me grounds me.

“What will we tell people?”

Dad keeps his eyes on the road, but I can see the tension in his face from here. The way his eyes are narrowed, his face wrinkling with thought. His hands are deathly white as they grip the steering wheel.

“She left. We say she packed a bag and left us.”

Makes sense.