Page 5 of Taunting Tarran
Oh, yes, because at the end of each session, I felt more like shooting the bitch. Therapy was supposed to be cathartic, not turning every session into a mental sparring match.
After the death of my grandfather, I wasn’t sure if I could trust myself anymore. Back then, when he died, I didn’t even realise at just sixteen, I was capable of such dark acts, but every session with Gillian seemed to edge me closer to the unthinkable. Therapy was supposed to heal, not ignite the already simmering rage. That’s why I stopped talking to my mother, too, before I killedher.
With two dead bodies under my belt, I was one away from calling myself a serial killer.
Woman kills grandfather, mother, and the therapist that triedto help.
If only they knew.
Since my grandfather’s passing, I had become the sole beneficiary of his estate:Finca del Sombra(Estate of the Shadow), and in twenty years I have been reluctant to set foot back on Spanish soil, despite the many happy times I spent there. Grandpa always told me stories that many centuries ago there had been a maiden called Isabella, known for her enchanting voice and deep love for Fernando, a young nobleman. Their bond was as strong as ancient oaks despite their feuding families. But then a decree forbade their union, and Isabella sought sanctuary in the forests and rolling hills, her song becoming a hope of harmony with nature. Villagers called her“La Dama del Bosque”, a guardian of the natural world, and Grandpa said that she appeared only to those who showed respect and care for the land, offering wisdom and guidance.
Did you help me, Isabella?
Was it you that guided me to safety?
I practically grew up inFinca del Sombra, huddled in front of a log burner while Grandpa told me stories. Sometimes we would sit around a crackling campfire with the children from the farmers after their day’s hard graft. I remember the sky being a canvas of stars, filled with the scent of pine, and garlic. While Grandpa and the farmers laughed, exchanging glasses of wine, me and the other children spent the evening darting in and out of the trees. Our laughter echoing through the darkness as our elders’ faces were illuminated by the dancing flames of the fire.Those are my memories, where our elders’ had twinkles in their eyes, and wore weathered, but comforting smiles, and weaved tales of heroic adventures and ancient legends. We kids listened in rapt attention, our imaginations painting vivid pictures of knights and dragons, and mystic lands.
‘Tarran!’ they laughed. ‘Ven a jugar con nosotros! Vamos a jugar a El Escondite Ingles.’
I have fond memories – ones I refuse to forget just because Mum wanted to leave and start a new life in England, dropping her Spanish surname as if embarrassed by her Spanish heritage. I never understood it. Grandpa remained positive, even when she told him she had no intention of farming the estate; a 16thcentury estate he worked every day on, and employed several farmers to assist with, to cover the ninety hectares of olive groves, meadows, mountains, and native forests.
I remember thefinca’slayout - two storeys of stone. The ground floor was reserved for the rearing of livestock such as his goats and sheep, and the top floor was where we lived.
Thick walls of stone up to a meter thick insulated us in the winter months, while keeping the interior cooler in the summer. I imagine now the beautiful exposed wooden beams are full of woodworm. There were cats everywhere, lounging on every sun-drenched windowsill, too. They prowled any shadowy corner of the farm, and curled up on steps. They weren’t feral either, not the scrappy kind you might expect;they were well-fed and sleek. Grandpa used to chuckle at them and explained their abundance was due to the plentiful food supply, which helped them multiply and, in turn, kept the rat population in check.
Chickens roamed freely, their feathered forms darting through the barren land and under the shade of ancient trees.
The quiet days filled with soft clucks and scratches as they pecked at the ground, blissfully unaware of the feline figures lounging nearby. The cats, content and well-fed, watched the chickens with mild curiosity but made no move to disturb them - a harmonious co-existence, each species respecting the others’ space.
Mum and I could barely tolerate each other. So when I was off school, I was visiting Grandpa, even if it was just for a short weekend. I spent most of my childhood atFinca del Sombra. When Grandpa died, that’s when our mother/daughter relationship really went sour. Unbeknown to me, he had gifted me the entire property in his Will, and it’s been ten years since I last spoke to her, the last of our conversation once again ending in bitter discourse.
‘Finca del Sombra should have been mine,’she seethed back then.
I snarled.‘I don’t want to go through this again, Mum!’
‘You should give it to me.’
‘You never wanted it.’
‘That’s not true...’
‘Grandpa said you pretty much wanted nothing to do with the land,’I replied,exasperated.
‘Well, no. I would develop it,’she laughed.
‘And, that’s not going to happen. He loved that place.’I shook my head.
‘You’re such a selfish bitch, Tarran.’
‘Mum?’
‘What?’
‘Fuck you!’
I might not want to live in Spain after what happened, but I’m not selfish.
Guilt.
