Lecture

It was a hot August day when she rummaged through the attic trunk for the perfect outfit. Tank top won’t do, jeans are too casual. Finally, she settled on a white, long sleeve turtle neck with khaki slacks and flats to match. Someone heard her rummaging and hollered up, “Quiet down, up there!” She heard the nervous giggles of her housemates as she admired her outfit in the dusty full-length mirror. Heading out she walked down the sidewalk, more confident with each step. Her footfalls became more pronounced, her smile encouraged many to stare. Her long hair swayed with each step and her eyes invited a friendly hello from those that passed. It was a warm day, but poor circulation made her winter attire a necessity, even in Southern Florida in August. She heard whispers about her choice of clothing as she continued on her way, she was certain many knew her secrets, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She walked up the stairs and entered the old building, walking with more conviction than she thought possible she entered a hall of 750 professional social workers. She was there, to help them recognize the quiet signs a victim of abuse may offer up. For two hours she lectured about winter attire in the heavy summer heat, meant to hide bruises from professions of all sorts. She talked of the victims need to be perfect as she subconsciously fixed her hair. She talked of failure where there was none and friends lost to secrets never to be found again. Upon completion of her lecture she quietly slipped out of the hall and hurried home. For the first time in a hundred years, she undressed in front of the mirror and saw the handprints he’d left upon her neck, the one’s that snuffed her life that warm August day of 1911. She folded her clothes perfectly and placed them back in the trunk. She sat in meditation, where she would stay until next year. When on the 101st anniversary of her death she would repeat the lecture of the dead.