The Wrong Garden

Speculative Fiction

Trigger warning: Domestic abuse, violence, murder, gore.

An Earth Defense Force explorer who stumbled into the wrong garden in another dimension tries to explain his true identity.

This isn't how I'd imagined it would be. All those years lost in daydreams. Planning in the shower, my mind racing on those long, dark winter nights. Every scene played out, every word and step rehearsed. So many what-ifs, and so many ways to make you pay. The worry throbbed behind my eyes. An ache no amount of aspirin could fix. Not in that way, anyway. Some days my head felt like it would split in two.

It wasn't always this way. Back then, flowers weren't a hollow apology, just a sweet surprise. You'd hold doors open, I was your lady. And your stories... those tall tales of yours had me clutching my sides, my laughter real and carefree. Remember those nights that blurred into mornings? Even your mother banging on the wall couldn't stop the giggles. Crazy, messy, good times... it feels like another lifetime now.

Then that dingy apartment we took. It reeked of cheap booze and stale promises. The peeling green wallpaper seemed to smile at me. And don't get me started on the mould in that tiny bathroom. This little place though, feels like mine. Feels safe somehow, but not when you are here. I take pride in it, my home. Everything is spotless, just how I like it. Neat and tidy – the way things should always be.

"Lady,"I keep telling you," Reed said, his voice scratchy and weak. "You got the wrong guy."

"Hush now, honey," she cooed, a finger against his trembling lips. A little smile played on her own. "Don't you worry about that."

Remember Stevie, slipping on those rocks at Filey? His jeans were so wet they looked painted on. Cussing you out every other breath. I laughed so hard that tears streamed down my legs. Then there was that night we raided the rhubarb patch, our flashlights bouncing in the dark. You were so drunk, stumbling over your own feet, trying to use the wrong end of the spade. 

Our old truck ... such a junkyard heap, with that mystery smell like dead fish. Probably Mick's doing, some greasy prank. Always a riot, that Mick. I lost track of him, but wouldn't mind a good laugh right about now. Should have been with him instead of you. Life might've been a lot easier. Less damaging.

"Lady, please listen to me. My name's Adrian Read." He twisted and struggled, wrists red against the tight ropes.

Our wedding day. Those promises we made feel like old jokes now. 'For better or worse,' we said, but there was never any 'better.' At least not for me. The way you'd chip away at me. Little comments at first, whispers laced with poison. Then those slaps, disguised as playful at first. Your grip around my throat, tighter and tighter with each argument. Your face twisted, hot whisky breath on my cheek, as you shoved and screamed.  All those moments branded on my skin like ugly scars.

Hospital trips?  How many? Three? Four? More like a dozen. A blur of stitches and plastered bones, a never-ending loop. The nights I didn't sleep, flinching every time you moved, my heart like a rabbit in my chest. 

I took a vow of silence. Never a word to anyone, a smile masking the bruises. Everyone bought those stories. Clumsy, accident-prone me, always walking into things. I was your masterpiece, a broken ornament that kept patching itself up.

Staying felt like drowning, but leaving was impossible. Fear can cripple you like that. So I did what I had to do. Played a trick on my own mind. It started as a way to cope, just a silly distraction. But then it twisted into something darker, a morbid sort of fun.  Like scrapbooking, only not pointless. Not when the rules meant keeping my sanity. The pain, the bruises, the loneliness... it all fueled the game. My twisted hobby. The garden bloomed with more than just flowers. 

"Lady, for fucks sake, untie me. Where the fuck am I?" Reed yelled, struggling against the ropes. 

There you go again. You were always seething, that temper ready to blow over nothing. Then came the silences. It's amazing how not speaking can be so intimidating. And those nights out of yours, getting longer and longer. It was fine by me, to be honest. Less of you to deal with. Safer. But damn that smugness of yours. Like I didn't know what those late nights meant. Like you could play me for a fool. Well, let me tell you. I knew. I knew it all. Seven. There were seven of them. And their faces, yeah, I can picture every one of them.

Sharon, Shaz, Shazzer – that mousy thing behind the counter at the corner shop? Seriously? Free smokes and stale bread, that was Shazzer. But what should I expect, after Elaine?  Remember her? That bike every man in town has taken for a ride. No self-respect, her. And neither have you. What a sick joke you are.

After Elaine, that whole pathetic "J" obsession. Jill, Jen, Janet.  Jen, now she was a catch. Those sparkling eyes, a smile that could tighten any man's pants. Honestly, in some messed-up, alternate universe, I could see myself grabbing a coffee with her. Not like we'd ever become soulmates or anything like that, but she had something those others lacked. Looks. A shame she fell for your slickly patter.

Next came the twins of empty heads, Sandy and Carla.  Honestly, those two redefined stupid. Where do you even unearth those gems? A moron convention?

My interest in your little distractions never wavered. I was so close I could nearly taste their cheap perfume.  But you? Not a clue. Wrapped up in your own little world, blind to the eyes watching you. You never even saw me. Not until that beast inside you bubbled up. You always saw me when you wanted a victim. Lashing out at the one person who was always there for you.

"Jesus Christ, help me! Somebody! Anyone?" His voice cracked, laced with a terror he couldn't hide.

"Quiet down, sugar. Nobody but me to hear those pretty screams."

What is it they say, 'snitches get stitches'? Well, I got stitches without snitching, but keeping my mouth shut suited me fine. Stay quiet and take the abuse, but enjoy your game. It was my choice, I kept telling myself.  Easier to convince myself of that, than admit maybe that fear kept me bound.

Shazzer was your opening act, your pathetic fumble into betrayal. My opening act? Well, mine was Jill.  Not planned. I dreamed of doing it in order. But a woman gets tired of playing by the rules when they're rigged against her. That Saturday in March. Do you remember? The one when you were playing the dutiful son at your Mother's place. Fate served Jill up for me.