A Cold New Year

By Alicia D. Brown

The warmth of the sunshine feels good on my skin as I sit in the garden watching my family. Mom and Amber are sitting on the loungers, drinking iced tea and flicking through baby catalogues, spoiling Alexander even more. Dads firing up the barbecue and carefully placing the burgers and sausages on the grill.

I cant help but think how different this all could have been. I wouldnt be sitting here watching my little son sleep peacefully in his stroller, his little hands and face so sweet. He looks like Lucas. The fact that my son will never know his father hurts me. I think how could I love something so much yet still hold feelings of nothing for his dad. I do thank him though, thank him for giving Alexander to me. I may never be fully rid of the nightmares and there are still some scars remaining, but now at least I have him to help me through. Every time I look at his beautiful blue eyes, I melt. His mom will always be here for him. He stirs. I pull the stroller cover down a bit more.

A knock at the door brings me out of my thoughts. I take his stroller back into the house. A wave of smiling faces greets me as various family members are stood there.

After everyones inside, I stand back and watch them all dance, and they laugh and fawn over Alexander who is loving all the attention.

For the first time in a long time, I shed a tear of joy and I let it fall. My mom comes over, holding Alexander, and wipes away my tear, kisses me on forehead, and hands Alexander to me.

His blue eyes stare up at me, and I cant stop the smile that spreading across my face. Alexander smiles back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496996015

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© 2014 Alicia D. Brown . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/08/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9600-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9601-5 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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I feel the cold beads run down like tiny circles of ice, stinging my back as they head towards the floor, soaking my clothes.

My breathing comes at an unfamiliar pace, droning in and out, stopping and starting, quickening and slowing. I shuffle farther and farther into the corner—as if I were trying to escape through the wall somehow—as the crimson pool edges closer and closer towards me.

Hypnotic paralysis takes over me as I sit there huddled within myself, watching his body lie motionless. Every few seconds I shudder, startling myself; it’s like I can almost see him smile, then he … he leaps up and launches himself at me, starting another explosion of kicks and punches. Punishment!

For the next few hours I go about cleaning up, getting rid of the now reddish-brown sticky pool. I scrub and scrub with every ounce of strength I have left in me. All that remains is a slight red-brown stain on the floorboards; by the time I started cleaning it had already soaked through.

The only thing left to do is dispose of … of him. Questions race through my mind: where to put, how to get … what will I say to people when they ask where he is? How will I even move him?

‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’

‘Can you put me through to the police? Please.’ My mouth goes dry, and my hands start to sweat.

‘Police. What’s your emergency?’

‘Erm … There’s a … I’ve found … There’s a body in Gramercy Park.’

‘Okay, ma’am, can I have your name and the location of the body, please?’

‘My name, you want my name? Why do you want my name? I’ve told you there’s a body in the park, and you want to know my name!’

‘It’s all right, ma’am. I need it for the report. A contact name so that we can get information from you.’

I try to think of a name, any name, but my mind goes blank.

‘Ma’am. Are you still there?’ I still can’t think.

‘Ma’am. Hello?’

‘Morgan Francis.’

Sooner or later they’ll know that he’s down there and that he was my husband. A fresh wave of panic and fear rushes through me. Did I get rid of everything that would be traceable to me? Clothes? The stains on the floor? Every inch of the house Lucas and I shared comes at me in flashes, hitting me like a brick.

I stand there looking down at the freshly turned grass and dirt, then down at my hands; little clumps of dirt cling to my palms and in the blisters that have formed almost over the entire surface. As I finally release the steel vice grip on the shovel, I wipe my brow, leaving a hot sticky mess across my face and raise my hands to my head: what was I thinking; I should just leave him here to rot, like he deserves, why bury him? Plain and simple, hide him till I can figure out what to do next. I couldn’t possibly have left him at the apartment, where would I have put him; the smell alone would alert someone. Maybe it’ll look like he was killed by someone else first and then they put him here and I was just sat at home waiting for him as always. Hide his body, hide the evidence, and give me more time … more time for what I don’t know. I just need to get rid of him. My mind races off again.

How did I get here!

As I back away from the phone booth, I feel like running back to the site where I put him, to check. My feet involuntarily walk towards the mound of earth, but as I get nearer, I hear the faint sounds of sirens. I turn on my heels and run back to the car, lock the door, roll up the window, put the shovel under the seat and reverse the car a little, close enough for me to see but far enough not to be seen.

Well, at least I think I can’t be seen.

I only stay long enough to see when they get there. In a strange way, I guess I want to make sure that he is now in safer hands.

I don’t think that my feet touch the ground as I run fast from the car to the apartment. I reach the front door and fumble around for my keys. Oh God, please don’t say that I dropped them; I couldn’t bear it. My bag never felt so big. It is like an abyss. A hand on my shoulder scares me out of my rising panic. It is Mrs Adelman from the apartment next door. She bends down and picks up my keys off the ground. To think I didn’t even lock the door! They must have dropped out and been there since I ran out.

‘Are you all right, my dear?