The Fridge Ghost.

There's a ghost in my fridge.

It loves hanging about in the lonely, cold clinic of my utility room.

It plays tricks on us.Laughs at us when it confuses us,

makes the fridge door open when we know it was shut.

 Tightly.

It languishes sloppily against the Chenin Blanc,

 mimicking our drunken, stupid stunts when we have drunk the lot.

It may laugh at us, but it is sad.

Sadly remembering what it was, what it had, why it is here, there,

 no-where.

Such a messy, dirty existence, amongst the sprouting onions and scuttling spiders,

 Ghost-in-the-Fridge cannot quite recall the day she arrived there.

 A hazy memory of .... something inside the coal shed....long ago, when he was angry,

 the supper not made, but he was hungry,

 then the sharp blade....and nothing.

 Ghost-in-the-Fridge thinks we are messy and dirty and not like her at all.

 Shocked at our standards,

 the drops of bolognese sauce splattered around after

 Saturday supper with Simon and Sue,

 the wilting lettuce, the ageing Brie, that would have been handy for Sunday night tea.....

There's a fridge in the ghost.

She started to freeze a long time ago, her little heart numbing, succumbing to self-preservation,

 easier that way...

Immune to emotion, hiding her feelings, safer that way.

We all know she's there, but we don't let on.,we don't discuss, make a fuss, call the priest.

 We blame each other for the open fridge door.

 Ghost-in-the-Fridge approves, creates dissent in the ranks,

 hearing us shout and complain, argue in vain.

 The coal shed has long gone, so the Buggie Bo has nowhere to go anymore;

 he loiters behind the recycling bin, completing the circle,

 abusing again and again.

 Round and round, remorse, affection, then mild irritation, then fury burning,

 exploding in anger.... .

Ghost-in-the-Fridge suffers and sighs, bearing the brunt of Buggie Bo's psychic assault, injured, violated , just as in life.

When he picked up the knife...

When Buggie Bo threatens and Ghost-in-the-Fridge suffers,

 the windows bang, the doors slam, the house shakes and shivers, quivers in its very foundation.

 We blame the wind, the draught....or some earthquake in Llandudno,

 an F3 in the Bristol Channel.

The less said the better.

Buggie Bo is terrifying, towering, a nightmare nasty;

he carries a bag of his threatening looks, hands around her throat, mean rasping promises, bruises hidden by guilty, anxious sleeves.

Dominator, jailer,liar, headworker, king of the castle.

Ghost-in-the-fridge, long and thin, wafting about, in and out of the icy fridge, hiding behind the Carlsberg cans.

Once more, his volcanic temper swells and erupts  - into her heart with a wicked stab  -  poor dab.

Dead yet again. No peace for the wicked.

Or the innocent.

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