Petunia and the Little Monster

June 1973

In her essence, Petunia was no fighter.

She only started things when she was sure she could win. And her weapons of choice were snide remarks and cutting words.

If she didn't see a way to emerge victorious, Petunia wouldn't yield but retreat. Leave the battle entirely or never even start it to begin with.

So, when Eugene's next letter arrived, as cheerfully and carelessly worded as always, Petunia retreated. She stopped asking questions. She stopped carefully hiding them away and taking them out before she went to bed to read.

She forced herself to cut out those things that hurt her.

And after the fifth letter - Is everything alright, Petals? - she stopped replying entirely.

Cutting something off that had become an integral part of her routine, her life, only took four weeks.

For the wounds to stop hurting, it took six months.

Six months in which Petunia spent more and more of her time with Aspen, to the point that her mother started worrying because she was so rarely home. She might have assumed that Petunia was 'running with the wrong crowd', because she sometimes stayed outside all night and missed school far more often than she had in all the years before.

The only thing that seemed to calm her mother down were reports from Butcher Emery who told her that Petunia diligently came by every day to pick up meat scraps. And she never smelled of alcohol or looked twice at his cash register.

Of course Petunia wouldn't allow her pain to hurt Aspen. No matter how much she felt like her chest had become a graveyard of thorns, she wouldn't neglect his care. He needed her - and this last half year, Petunia had also needed him.

Supplementing his diet - despite Aspen catching birds for himself - was at the top of her priority list.

Aspen was after all still growing, at least if she believed what Eugene had - don't think about him.

Clearing her head of unnecessary thoughts, Petunia walked into the butchery.

Butcher Emery's shop was a cool reprieve from the stifling summer sun and Petunia exhaled with relief. Today was an unusually hot day for the British Midlands and small beads of sweat were running down her back and glueing her fine blonde hairs to her forehead. The air inside the shop smelled of cleaning agents and a bit like stale blood, a strange combination that Petunia had gotten used to over time.

Butcher Emery glanced at her upon hearing the bell tingling above the door but couldn't spare her more than a twitch of his red moustache. He was a short but broad man who had the kind of hard fat coating his belly and arms that screamed 'strength' instead of 'indulgence'.

Petunia recognized the man standing in front of Butcher Emery as Farmer Wilson, though the man's straw-colored hair was usually properly patted down around his protruding ears, not messed into a nest. His eyes were blood-shot and he looked a lot thinner than Petunia remembered, the only spot of colour on his waxy face a sunburn peeling the skin of his nose.

"I'm telling you, I'm cursed! The milk turns sour, the chickens lay no eggs and now you're telling me my pig's too thin for butchering?"

Petunia knew him, of course she did, Cokeworth wasn't a big town. But more than that, Farmer Wilson could actually be considered their neighbour. The fields surrounding the Evan's house all belonged to him and he usually used them to let his cows graze or collect straw for the winter months.

Emery grunted. "'Tis be a shame to kill 'er. Not much meat to be had."

"She's the fattest one I got," Wilson protested and a note of despair creeped into his voice. "I'm telling you, something's going on. I'm feeding them like usual!"