All the Murmuring Bones

by A.G. Slatter

I was three, a small person, not a damp, dribbling, shitting lump.

Why do they all think me harmless? He might be a good judge of men, but he’s an appalling one of women. He knows about my purchased knives, yes, but not about Óisín’s pearl-handled knife, hidden deep within my pockets, and it’s an awful surprise to him that I slip it across his throat as he’s kissing me. He makes a terrible noise; I swiftly wrap my shirt around his neck to keep the blood from spurting too much, but not enough to staunch the flow and accidentally save him. I watch the crimson soaking into the white fabric, wonder if all that red might fill the hole inside of me where Maura and Malachi used to be… the knowledge of what they did to keep me safe… a gift, a weight, a grief I’ll never be able to repay, shift or forget. His eyes are wide and so very green. And angry and afraid and bewildered. The prince of assassins felled so low by a woman and a tiny knife. ‘Life,’ I tell him as I sit on the bed to watch him die, ‘is full of surprises.’

Aged matrons with no fear of death or censure, who’ve spent their whole lives keeping their mouths shut in the interests of protecting the sensibilities of others – no resemblance to Aoife there – but now they don’t care. They’ve got sharp eyes, tongues like whips, and remarks to sting the same way salt does when rubbed into a wound.

He says he loves me. But I am wary of love. Says he needs me. And I am weary of need.

He is hurt when I don’t reply in kind; I’ve been finding he’s easily hurt. But he is gentle so I say to him something I hope he will one day understand. ‘I don’t need you,’ I say, ‘I want you. That should be enough. That should be better because it means I’ve made a choice.’