Sutton by J.R Moehringer
8 min @ my desk
When I was little I could talk to fairies and other spirits. And then they shunned me. It wasn’t my fault. I tried to tell them I didn’t even ask for the book.
It was my sixth birthday and Aunt Sylvia turned up with her flamingo pink smile and matching nails. She always wore matching nail polish and lipstick and said you should never leave the house without your face. I thought where she lived was full of zombie people with melted holes where their faces should be. I couldn’t imagine who else walked around without faces. To this day I have no interest in visiting Madison, Wisconsin.
Anyway, it was my sixth birthday and she turned up making this the third birthday she’d brought me a present, except I don’t remember the first one. Something plushy I imagine. And pink. It’s not important, what I’ll never forget is the horror of opening the picture book to see drawings of smushed fairies. It was a story about a little girl who collected fairies instead of butterflies. I looked at my Aunt’s crazy grin and knew she was a witch. She thought I’d grow up to be like her.
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