The Dark Corner

As a child, my masculine hero was Walter Potter and my feminine hero was Beatrix Potter. My own surname was Potter; I fantasized about continuing a great lineage. The pages were wax-smooth against my fingertips as I traced the images of rabbits dancing in a moonlit glade. The fur was silk-soft under my hand as I stroked the burnt-orange fox-skin. What Walter Potter created in reality, Beatrix Potter released into imagination. I would never have loved it in reverse.  

As a teen, my parents taught me skills for life. Needle, thread, scissors: from my mother. Knife, glue, oil: from my father. The cotton stuffing was for everyone, sitting free in the cupboards, used for all types of medical purposes. My parents gave me Joy, a puppy, fitting perfectly in my cupped hands. At eighteen, I was running wild through the fields with Joy. Myself and the dog grew taller and fatter and stronger. But my lifespan is for eighty-three years, and a dog only a fraction.  

Late-autumn, one great and terrible howl pierced the sky. I found her lying nestled in the leaves where she had dropped right on my doorstep, dead. Calm, I carried her into the gloom of our home, illuminated by little warm lights. I knew what to do; my parents had taught me well.  

I tied an apron around my waist, so that my clothes would not be stained by the blood and guts. Joy was still warm when I sliced her stomach open. My careful hands dissected her, drained her, placed all her organs into freezer bags. I felt the thrill of remaking, of taking a first draft and editing it to my own vision. I had already tailored and embroidered the clothes months ago. Just in case. 

In the reception room of my parent’s dwelling, a collection was displayed, a scene presented, forever in present tense. A dinner scene. A miniature table, set with felt fruit and children’s plates. A wedding to be celebrated; two cats, one in bridal white, one in groom black. A badger presiding over the ceremony, adorned with a priest’s robes. Four dogs in dresses of shades from gold to navy, sixteen mice all in lilac lace, three foxes with curling frozen grins. One glorious golden-toned deer, head forever bent, looming over the scene like an animal god.  

Stitch by stitch, our Potter family made them all.  

To be in stasis is to be stoic. To lack all desire or desperation, to lack hunger and thirst and want. To have achieved perfection and immortality. All my love for my dog Joy has been transmuted into eternity. Her heaven is this manufactured gathering, a place where she will never be alone, never be sad. My job, with my knives and needles, glue and tape, is to take the dead on that path from a body to the world beyond. A gift from my parents to me. I would never have chosen any different. 

Ciara Campbell is a Belfast-born, Dublin-based writer of novels and short stories. She enjoys exploring difficult characters and alternate societies. Her work has been published in The Martello Journal, New Isles Press, Stoney Collection and Writers’ Cafe, showcasing her distinctive voice and imaginative storytelling. She is a winner of the 2020 PentoPrint short story competition and a recipient of bursaries from the Irish Writers Centre.