The Lies That Bind Us
By JP Relph
Listen to a reading of this story by JP Relph:
I still believe my sister is alive
They found Shannon, so I’m driving home. Twenty-two years since I put all of it in my rear view. I’ve only been back once, for Mam’s funeral, still call it home.
They found Shannon in a suitcase in ancient woods. Mummified, brown bones poking out like she’s overcooked chicken. Left luggage for an off-track dog walker.
They found Shannon twenty-four years after she disappeared. Mam didn’t make it past the second anniversary – choosing pills, cheap vodka. There’s only me to tell.
I saw her get into a grey van with red mud on the plate
I was fifteen when Shannon’s face was stapled to every tree. Me, a wish-washy version of the “dazzling, popular eighteen-year-old”, I was unseen. Underestimated.
I was fifteen when I stared at mugshots of local paedos. Their wet, desperate eyes never found my nightmares - full as they were with the woods after midnight.
I was fifteen when Mam said she wished I was the vanished one. Shannon was a diamond, I was obsidian – dark, cold – bad things don’t happen to diamond girls.
I always had bad feelings about Eddie
Shannon’s boyfriend was a suspect for a viral minute. His alibi was a cute girl and a dingy pub bathroom. The media gorged on his bad-boy image; I saved every photo.
Shannon’s boyfriend kissed me at a party while she slept on the couch. I was seen. His mouth was lager-sour, his fingers mined all the diamonds from deep inside me.
Shannon’s boyfriend had a rusty blue muscle car. She hated the hot leather backseat on her bare ass. I loved how my sweaty knees and hands slipped and slid across it.
Mam used to beat Shannon, it got bad
The detective says they have DNA. Hair gripped in Shannon’s wizened hand – a last rotten gift. They got a familial profile only. I remember the burn of my raw scalp.
The detective says Mam fooled us all. Played everyone with her visceral torment, her endless campaigning. I nod, say some killers hide in plain sight. I cry convincingly.
The detective says he hopes I’ll find closure now. His simpering eyes remind me of Eddie. Begging, staring at my slim hands, shocked by how hard they could squeeze.
I loved my sister more than anyone
That night, I imagine I feel sharp scissors snip-snip and the bindings fall. I sift the fragments through my fingers; they smell of Shannon’s sorrow and turned soil.
That night, I imagine I feel hot leather on my thighs, cold headlights turning woodland shadow to emerald. Shannon’s dazzling smile fades like newsprint.
That night, I imagine I feel…
nothing at all and wonder if that’s closure.
JP Relph is a Cumbrian writer hindered by a chronic health condition and four cats. Tea helps. She frequents charity shops to source haunted objects. JP writes about apocalypses a lot (despite not having the knees for one) and her collection of post-apoc short fiction was published by Alien Buddha in 2023. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions and Best Microfictions. JP recently got a zombie story on the Wigleaf longlist which was perhaps the best thing ever.