We don't ask where the water drains away to, we just keep using it to dispose of the things that shouldn't see the light of day. I remember one winter when my aunt told me that she sent her baby down there and worse still - my mother was there with her, a baby in her own arms that my aunt refused to say if it was hers or anothers.
Little secrets like that, whispered after a few too many drinks, tend to fall upon a quiet listener like myself like snow on the hilltops. Sure nobody minds it at first and it becomes expected after a number of years of the same but eventually summer will come and the snow will melt.
The valley below will become flooded with everything they thought they drowned and they will have nobody to blame but their drunken selves for telling me everything I never wanted to know. A part of me wants to scream their murders for the whole town to hear but I know they're all just as guilty as each other.
What I need to do - what I will do - is find where the water goes and bring their secrets back to them. All those unplanned infants, all those bloodstained knives and poisoned dinners will fall right at their feet and they'll know that there's nowhere left for them to hide.
The truth will set them free - I'm going to make sure of it.
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