It’s amazing how much work it takes to hide a glory-hound man three feet under the roots of a weeping willow.

The dirt under my fingernails is a permanent souvenir now. The tattoo of our eternal love gleams in the pink glow of twilight. I run my fingers over the black wings under my wrist – the ink my husband gave me. Resting the heavy spade against the willow, I let out a long breath. The mud is heavy, smelling of rot and wet iron. It sticks to the blade as if trying to hold onto the secret I gave it.

Patting the mulch, I whisper to the wind, “Finally, finally, you have stopped talking, Eivor.”

I poke a stray bone fragment with the toe of my boot and sit back on my heels, by the scorched patch of earth where the foxgloves refuse to grow. Victory is a cold hum in my marrow.

Eivor had the eyes of a saint. Even when he stood by the kitchen counter like a portrait of patience, surrounded by marriage counselling pamphlets and a fresh pot of tea, his bluish-grey eyes shone like cold winter lakes.

“Darling,” he’d whispered, reaching for my hand with a trembling devotion. “I’ve booked us a retreat. I talked to a doctor about your… episodes. I just want my girl back.” He urged, gesturing toward the porcelain cups. I didn’t drink. I never drank his bitter tea. I just laughed in his face, smashing the teapot on the counter. The fine china shattered into a thousand jagged white teeth. The Earl Grey dripped like blood down our beige linen as the back door creaked, followed by a hollow gasp. Mrs Garcia stood frozen at the threshold; her knuckles were white against her basket of muffins. Her eyes darkened as Eivor cowered back, his shoulders rounding with a pathetic grace; he looked exactly like a man living in constant fear of his wife.

Rushing to his side, Garcia first narrowed her eyes at me with cold, piercing pity and then her hand moved up to my husband’s arm. I let her see my smile, as Garcia’s hazel eyes drifted to the bouquet of wilted roses Eivor bought for me and the other dead flowers on the shelf. She saw the dreadful monster – the harpy wife shattering the peace of the man who was only trying to anchor the drifting ship of their love.

The town was fed on his burden. Neighbours knew in the blink of an eye that I was losing my mind. My mother believed I was unstable. At the gala, Eivor’s hand was a vice on my shoulder, his thumb digging into the ink-stain on my collarbone.

“My wife is a fiery spirit,” he chortled to our friends. “I spend every day trying to keep her from burning herself out. But she’s worth it.”

I didn’t have to speak. Every second of my silence proved his point: Poor Eivor, married to a ghost.

The people offered him their pity like a tithe – the same people who would later whoosh about the wife who didn’t cry a drop over the casket of her missing husband.

They forgot, ghosts don’t stay in the attic forever. Sometimes, they haunt too.

That night, Eivor came back late. The hearth was roaring. A slow warmth hummed in my bones. My husband didn’t hold a teacup or a flower that day. He didn’t come for a choking hug; he didn’t say ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m here for you’. He slowly walked towards me, with a face like a distorted map of loathing. His fingers ran over the chipped edge of the bronze-figurine on the mantle, “You know, where do broken things belong, Emory?”

I didn’t even blink. I only basked in the fiery warmth when his steps advanced as he hissed slurrily, “I’m tired of fixing you, darling. And I don’t keep things I can’t fix.”

His teeth bared as he threw the bronze in front; it brushed past the arm of my seat, grazing a long line across my flesh.

I didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. When he lunged, I simply stepped aside – adding the smallest but most deliberate nudge to his momentum. Puff. His foot caught on the tattered rug – the exact one he’d refused to replace for years. He just fell in a clumsy, drunken arc, straight into the white-hot grate of the stone fireplace.

No, I didn’t call for help. Didn’t even drop my glass of wine. I made myself comfortable in his favourite armchair and watched the silence begin. I let the scent of char settle in my lungs and then dragged what was left out to the willow. Puff, it is.

Dusting off the damp soil from my palms, I stand up.

I rip the sachets open one by one, seasoning my husband’s grave with his special Earl Grey, which he meant only for me. Its metallic smell crowds the air.

“Very unfortunate, Eivor,” I say slowly, “I heard Garcia talking to your doctor-friend last night. They are searching for you, darling.”

I pull up my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my forehead. The ink under my wrist, right beside my singed skin, catches the fading light - a jagged, black birdcage wrapped in rusted barbed wire, the spikes digging into the ink-flesh of the ‘bird’ inside.

It was our first anniversary. Eivor had pinned my arm to the table; the tourniquet bruised blue on my skin as the tattoo-needle buzzed like a trapped hornet. He’d leaned down, the scent of his cologne cloying and nauseating. He breathed right under my ear, as the ink drew blood:

“I’m putting this cage on your skin, Emory, darling. So, you can remember who your pulse belongs to. If you ever try to fly, I’ll make sure the wires tear you apart.”

I look down at the mound of dirt.

I guess the wires couldn’t break me, Eivor. They just gave me something to sharpen my teeth on.

.    .    .