Lavender Wednesday

Written out of the history books, I have been left to lament on my past. My past-life was a balance between wonderful memories and horrific experiences. Both the good and the bad stay with me, even though my body is just mere bones fossilised in a cemetery.

When I was alive, people would throw coins at me during street performances in the day, then come and see me sing at night. I had many roles in the theatre; a queen, a geisha, a maid, a princess and a criminal. I slept in bouquets of flowers and bathed in roses.

Alas the fame and glory is not to last. I was struck by a sickness one day and never woke up in my body again. I still felt I had much more to give with my voice.

Perhaps it is a good time for me to introduce myself. I'm Lavender Wednesday. In my previous life, I was a famous opera singer in Cambridge. It is a pleasure to meet you. I live in the gentle fountains, but I get no visitors. Yes, people see the fountain and some even take pictures of it, but they don’t know about me and they can’t see me.

In fact, nobody has listened to me in years. They cannot see my pale robes. No one feels my presence anymore. Of course, I can’t help but chuckle. They won't know who I am: because I'm dead! I look forward to Halloween, much more than Christmas. It's the only time of the year when people seem to know I'm around.

It's the only time they hear my voice. I don't know why, but everybody's sensitivity seems to increase in the autumn. When I was alive, I filled the seats all year round. Centuries later, they only talk about me in October. By the time November comes, I am forgotten, once again.

I sang a cold song that lured people towards the fountain. Kids dressed as sorcerers gathered around, to see where the voice was coming from. They could not see me, but I floated towards the boy with ginger girls and patted his head. He opened his hands and smiled. I summoned his favourite chocolate bar in his hand. I see him every Sunday with his granddad feeding the ducks. So kind, a rarity amongst the rotten brats that fill the city centre.

After the kids left, a young couple sat by the fountain holding hands. I sang something smoother and lowered the pitch, to make things more romantic for them.

The woman gasped, squeezing the man's hand. "Can you hear that? It's beautiful."

"Sounds like a shrieking banshee," he said, chuckling.

I had never been so insulted. I sucked his face, hurling him into the water.

A skater youth smirked. "One must never insult the ghost of Lavender Wednesday."

"She doesn't exist," the man roared.

I sang at my voice's peak. "YES I DO!"

The couple fled.

Sometimes it’s fun to tease them. It keeps my mind of the never-ending furlough that I have found myself in. Even though my body and best assets are gone. My spirit still lives on through this fountain. It is a beautiful fountain and I am fortunate to have a sweet afterlife. Although, just maybe, one day, my soul will go out and explore further worlds.

Perhaps that will be the day people will stop writing women out of history and acknowledge all the incredible things we’ve done. It’s about time men stopped taking credit for the things we do. The system people have today is better than the one we had when I was alive, but it is not sufficient for the modern day. It’s lovely how people can be in control of their destiny and identity.

It’s something worth singing about