The pen moves slowly across the page, as if resisting the words that spill forth in ink. There is a hesitancy, a reluctance, as if the writer herself does not want to see the story that is unfolding. An expression of horror glazes her eyes and her mouth moves in silence, haunted by the journey of violence and death her hand reveals.
Years of abuse and oppression curl in copperplate atrocity, tracing cold decades from hopeful bride to browbeaten victim. A story that tears at the gut and one that needs to be told; silenced for too long by fear and fist. She recognises the tragedy of her life, of her lost dreams and forgotten laughter. She knows the despair, the self-hatred, the unreasonable guilt…
Make it stop. Please. Make it stop.
The litany echoes in her mind. Mute tears blotch the paper as her hand moves inexorably onward. Pity for lost innocence, hurt for broken illusions, pain for the blackened flesh and scarred wrists… grief for the children… colouring each word with a dark agony.
No-one sees. No-one knows. The fallacy of happiness is maintained… the smiling mask remains in place…no-one wants to look beyond and see…
The tale moves on, towards that night…
Make it stop.
There had been blood. So much blood.
It has to stop. I am sorry.
It had been too much.
Not the children. No.
She can no longer see. Tears and blank horror blind her… but her hand moves on…
And I am sorry.
Sorry for my life, sorry for my failure to act. For my blindness.
Sorry for this woman, my daughter, my sister, whose pen moves without her volition, telling a story that needs to be told. She writes my words at my impulsion because she can…because she too knows… and I can reach her now as I could not do before…I can speak now what I could not tell before…
Now, from beyond…
“Automatic writing or psychography is an alleged psychic ability allowing a person to produce written words without consciously writing. The words are claimed to arise from a subconscious, spiritual or supernatural source. “ Wikipedia
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As they prepared to leave and go home – a long way away – they started fantasising… There would be an island, a secret garden, a view over the old church, new colours and space for dreaming and loving. Perhaps even a shortcut to the lake from their porch?
Left in the 
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 