THE FIRST THING I REMEMBER

THE FIRST THING I remember is seeing Mum running into the kitchen, opening the drawer, taking out the longest, sharpest knife; the shimmer of the blade as it caught the light; and Mum storming out the front door and down the stairs brandishing it. I was three years old. I toddled to the open door and watched from the landing: Mum stabbing the knife through Rose’s letterbox, in-out, in-out, screaming at the top of her lungs: “THIS IS THE LAST TIME, ROSE! YOU HEAR ME YOU EVIL OLD COW! I’LL KILL YOU!”

On the other side of her door, Rose was yelling into her phone: “HELLO! … POLICE! … MAD WOMAN FROM UPSTAIRS! … TRYNA KILL ME AGAIN!”

Mum screaming: “TELL EM TO BRING A BODY BAG, ROSE!”

Dad wasn’t there because he was working the night shift. I don’t remember feeling anything as I watched Mum stabbing that knife in and out of Rose’s letterbox, threatening to kill her. Then two policemen showed up. They escorted Mum back upstairs and into the flat. one of them patted the top of my head. They chatted over a cup of tea and left.

We lived in Eltham, South-East London, in a semi-detached house converted into small flats: two up, two down. Rose was the old lady who lived downstairs. She had straggly grey hair, a bony nose and warts on her chin. She would scream at us through her letterbox whenever we entered the building: accusing Mum and Dad of spying on her in the bath and plotting to kill her. At night, she would stand under my bedroom window, her open dressing gown blowing in the wind, banging metal dustbin lids together as though they were cymbals, cackling demonically and wailing like a banshee. I’d wake up in my cot, screaming. Mum would come into the room, pick me up, cuddle me, rock me on her shoulder. Don’t be afraid of that nasty old witch, she’d say, Nanny Brenda will protect you. Nanny Brenda killed herself before I was born. Mum wouldn’t be getting me back to sleep that night or any other night Rose was out there banging on those dustbin lids wailing like a demon.

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Got an interesting childhood memory? Feel free to share in the comments.

Before I sign off, allow me to introduce a new Substack writer and artist to you. If you like your stories short and dark, you might appreciate his work. He’s my little sister’s other half, my longtime friend, and he’s like a son to me: Dean Simmons. Check him out, and if you like what you read, why not give him a follow. He also does drawings, animations, and loads of other artistic stuff. All very good, in my humble opinion.

Broken Lungs