It’d been thirteen years since I’d been home. Through generational offloading my inheritance had diminished from hundreds of acres to tens. Mum, the last in her line to divide, cut fifty to twenty-five in order to survive. The surrounding country still cloaked the paradise within, grieving the torture endured.
Pulling up inside the boundary, I pleaded calm to overrule my heartrate as I absorbed the changes: a cattle grid replaced impenetrable metal gates; post and rail paddocks housed rescued animals, where once chainmesh ensnared humans. Mum had been telling me for years, “It’s over. He’s gone. We’re healing.” I allowed her mantra to soothe my panic.
My fragile world had crumbled on my tenth birthday. Justice—our sovereign’s self-proclaimed title—declared I was to come of age. Mum intervened. Her sentence? Time downstairs. A holding-cell, water and soundproofing had been installed in the old bunker under our home. It was where all cult members learned, “Justice must be served”.
On that night, my saviour was strung up, stripped, clipped, and hosed. The commune paraded through our house, down the staircase, past her cage, parroting our one law, “Justice must be served.”
From that moment my memory was a blur: swathed, secreted, scratched whilst squeezed under the fence. A warm car. A long drive. A new start. On hearing the news, “It’s over. He’s gone. We’re healing,” I’d begged her to leave. But she’d argued, “I’m at fault. I must make amends.”
And now I was here, and she was gone. I parked beside a flourishing garden bursting with heavenly scents in every colour… except orange. The stepping-stone-path led me on its journey of remembrance past plaques with names, some without: a memorial to the victims of Justice.
From the garden across to the hills, animals grazed lazily, tails flicked the occasional irritant, trees offered shade as the cool breeze carried the message, “It’s over. He’s gone. We’re healing.” I couldn’t delay any longer. I approached my mother’s… my… house. Nausea and sweat competed for prominence. Yet, it was her will. It must be done.
On the verandah, a scream caught in my throat as the door burst open. I was embraced and memories of love and security and oaths to keep watch, flooded as spent flowers fell to the ground.
“You came.” Hetty’s arms, as always, were strong and loving and safe and warm. She pulled back and wiped my tears. “You came.”
Together we picked up the dropped blooms. Hetty smiled, “Every week they’re refreshed, their memory honoured. She insisted.” Her eyes pooled. I hugged her again and she left me there on the threshold: my past, present and future at war.
Unconsciously I allowed the renovations to draw me in. The floors now polished to honeyed-gold. The walls reflected whipped cream. Every window open, framing the perfection of the country beyond. And on most surfaces, flowers in all hues, except orange. “It’s over. He’s gone. We’re healing.” I inhaled her peace.
But then, there was the door. A key, threaded with a silver chain, sat in the lock. I knew forbidden darkness dwelled on the other side, yet it called to me. At the top of the staircase my heart stopped. My breath stolen.
“What’d you forget, you mangy bitch?”
It was not over. He was not gone.
With tin legs I battled every step until I stood face to face with my nightmare dressed in his ordained orange jumpsuit. “Who the hell are you?”
On each wall of the bunker, painted in orange, were lists of names. Each column headed: murder; rape; aggravated assault; coercion; kidnapping. Beside each name was a sentence: life – twenty-five years. Fourteen years. Ten years. Seven. Under them, painted in orange, was written, seven-hundred and seventy-seven years.
Crude swearing sobered my stupor. I turned to the man whose DNA I carried. Soulless eyes burned, obscenities frothed, and knuckles clawed. Washed with equal parts shame and disgust I remounted the staircase. Quietly locking the door and slipping the chain over my head, I realised my mother was right: Justice must be served.
