Some stories aren’t just stories.
They’re memories stitched into fiction — not to hide them, but to make them easier to hold.
She Deposed isn’t just a piece I wrote for class. It’s based on real events — moments that shaped who I am, the ghosts that followed me, and the strength it took to finally face them. Writing it wasn’t easy. It forced me to revisit rooms I tried to forget, people I stopped naming, and versions of myself I’d buried years ago.
But that’s the thing about the past: it doesn’t stay gone just because you close your eyes.
Sometimes, you have to meet it at 2am, one last time, to finally let it go.
She Deposed
By Madi
I stood there behind the door of our double wide trailer, scanning every rusty bolt and hinge, slowly letting my gaze move to the hole where a door knob should’ve been. It was a wonder how the place had not yet been broken into or robbed, not that we had anything worth taking. I allowed my mind to sit in that thought for a moment as it was a kind distraction from what I was about to have to do. I waited impatiently for the clock on the old stove to claim the time of 2am before hitting the strike plate and opening the door.
I closed my eyes, letting the cold air of the early hours settle on my face before opening them again. There it was, laying among the patches of dirt and weeds in the yard just as unmaintained as the house itself. I had long since given up hope that it would stop appearing, stop haunting my mind and depriving me of my much needed rest. Still, my fear had evaded my senses many years ago.
At this point, the work was more muscle memory. I moved in to examine the body for any leakage of fluids. Luckily, today, there was none. I then interlocked my arms under that of the corpse and slid it up the porch attachment into the house. I no longer needed to use ropes for this since the body had already decomposed into a much lighter state than when it first appeared.
Still, I heaved in my breath, struggling to move the body down the hallway that was already too narrow for even myself and into the first bedroom. I didn’t worry about it being there when the younger kids woke up for school. Usually, it wasn’t. Most days, it would disappear before sunrise, like it was never actually there to begin with, a secret kept by a child who had no one to tell.
By the time I had finished and regained my composure, it was almost three in the morning. If I wanted to sleep before the first of the four other kids in the house awoke, I could’ve, I had time. I didn’t though. I knew better than to let myself fall asleep, only to wake up late and face my mother’s fury, or worse, her husband’s. I still had a few bruises from the last time one of us missed the bus. They served as a good reminder of just who I was.
I was the unfavored. The mistake, as my mother often liked to phrase it. Of course, I didn’t blame her. I knew I was a product of unwanted breakup sex between her and my father. To her, I was the reason she was unable to escape his abuse. It was because of me she had stayed with him long enough to have three more children. I’m also the reason they split up four years later. Although she didn’t always blame me and treat me as the bane of her existence. I still remember the beginning, every I love you she whispered to me, every hug and story she’d tell, as well as a weird song about a meatball that rolled off the table and around the world.
It wasn’t until after my sixth birthday that I found out how she truly felt. The first time she struck me, it was painful, but it was nothing compared to the emotion that surfaced inside of me. My first betrayal. I cried that time, and many times after that, I did not yet understand that tears only worsened the beatings. Eventually, I learned to suck it up and shut my mouth, to wait for her to get bored and move on.
On the days I managed to appease her anger, life seemed easier, and my stomach felt slightly more full than the days before. The food tasted better, too. I didn’t have to go to the neighbors and grovel for slices of bread and stevia packets. I didn’t have to make up excuses like being unable to afford groceries or just forgetting to eat. At least not on those days.
I always felt as though the neighbors knew about my living situation, so I didn’t complain or tell them about the pain. I didn’t tell them about how my mother treated me or about the things my stepfather did while no one was watching. I’d hear kids tell stories at school about there parents and somehow it made me think about how lucky I was that I not only lived with two adults, but that they weren’t overly worried about things like grades and chores. I only realized later in life how foolish I was.
Then again, a bird in a cage doesn’t necessarily understand its captivity if it never had a taste of freedom. In fact, it might even end up hating the person who set it free. That’s how I was when I finally got out. I hated everyone who told me I was in denial. I saw pity as a threat, and to me, sympathy was the same as idiocy. I was a fighter, but not for the right reasons. I didn’t mean to protect anyone. I didn’t care about whether or not I caused someone pain. I wanted everyone to know how I felt. I wanted them to live in my anger, and so I was always angry.
Soon, I started hanging out with other people like me, people who didn’t have time for emotions or at minimum didn’t care to show them. We were quite stupid, but I truly enjoyed how we’d play games that halted right on the line between living and dying. I myself came so close to death at one point that walking through hell was more familiar than earth. Even then, I didn’t stop. I found myself amused with things like crossing the street when I knew a car was coming just to see if I could outrun it.
Later on, I found myself starting to fight battles that were never mine, straying farther and farther away from who I wanted to be. Back then, I was fine with it. The parties were fun but pointless. I couldn’t help but recognize when I changed even slightly. I stopped teetering between life and death and simply waited for the reaper to appear on my doorstep. It was only a matter of time before I myself became a corpse on another little girl’s lawn, haunting her mind and her memory, allowing her no comfort at night and no achievement during the day.
I could imagine her even though she did not yet exist. She’d have my eyes but someone else’s smile, as well as my sense of humor and a bit of my attitude. I hated to think about what I would’ve done to her had I kept moving the way I was. I didn’t want that. I couldn’t be responsible for turning a good thing bad, and so I ran away in search of the corpse that haunted me in childhood. If I was going to get better, I needed to start there. I needed to start by confronting the object of my own animosity. So I did.
I waited in my old yard for the corpse and as usual around 2am it arrived. For me, this was going to be the last time I put it to bed. Only this time, I wouldn’t let it just disappear before sunrise. I would be sure to confront it, to disown it if I had to. I would get rid of all lingering attachments, even if that meant leaving my own mother’s corpse in the hands of her murderer. So that’s what I did. In the end, she chose addiction.
🌙 Reflection
I didn’t write She Deposed to shock anyone.
I wrote it because sometimes, the only way to stop something from haunting you is to name it — to give it a shape and a voice, even if it hurts.
Growing up in chaos changes you. It makes you strong in strange ways, cautious in others. For a long time, I thought surviving was enough. But survival isn’t healing — it’s just step one. Writing this piece was step two.
If you’ve ever carried something heavy from your past, I hope you find comfort in knowing you’re not alone.
Sometimes closure doesn’t come from others — it comes from telling your truth, even when your voice shakes.
So here’s to the ones who made it out,
the ones still standing,
and the ones still learning how to breathe again.
You’re seen. You’re heard. You’re not alone.
Rooted & Real 