Monika Gildeen
Her ghost continues to haunt me.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. I stared at that angelic, young, and innocent face with those hazel tinted eyes reflecting speckles of green light. As beautiful as she was, Monika Gildeen’s ghost continues to haunt me.
Monika was an only child, loved and adored by her father, who longed to see his wife standing by her daughter’s side. He was a proud man who worked hard for his daughter’s welfare and liberty, working fourteen hours a day on a neighbouring farm for scraps of meat and a pocket full of change. The working man was under no illusion, having no other option but to be extorted by his employers. With nowhere else to go, Monika helped the farmer’s wife with light chores and housework while her father earned his daily bread. He would point an oil-stained finger in her direction on the walk home with aching legs and tired eyes.
“Money makes the world go round. Don’t you forget it.”
It was the only time he would speak to his daughter during their forty-five-minute walk along the tracks to their modest home outside the village. Her luck was about to change, for there on the ground littered over the railway tracks sat bundles of dollar bills. The rusting metal tracks were curious of the new guests that sat by their side, generally more accustomed to the dying golden leaves that caused mayhem to commuters during the autumn months.
I watched on as her father frantically jumped onto the tracks scooping up the green coloured currency with makeshift shovels. Monika stood stunned at her father’s desperation, not understanding the importance of his actions. She felt the ground shudder and the vibration from the 18:47 train to Crowdon Crescent. He looked at me with eyes controlled by the gods of greed, choosing to ignore the sound he had registered from the high-speed train.
The locomotive’s sound reached Monika’s ears, enticing the young girl to turn her head to the juggernaut hurtling towards their location. Her father stared up at the train and then down at the wooden beams to his fortune. The train refused to yield in an obnoxious and aggressive rage, the driver unaware of the man’s presence.
Monika’s father had time for one last long reach, clutching another wad of cash. Losing his balance, he unexpectedly slipped, planting his foot through a sharp shard of rusted metal rebelling from its heavy rivets. The twisted piece of metal pierced through the sole of his leather boot and into his foot, causing the man to cry out in agonizing pain. He gazed down at his wound, desperately fighting through the hurt to lift his limb off the metal spike.
He returned a worried stare to his daughter, who had placed one hand over her mouth, unable to ignore his eyes that shimmered from the tears forming over the curvature of distraught eyes. The selfish thoughts of not being able to watch her grow and bring him grandchildren vanished, offering the stage to views of his ignorance and naivety. The most precious thing to him in the entire world had now been spurned, his daughter’s future exchanged for the price of peanuts. Her father’s final words were viciously taken from his lips and carried away from the scene through a blur of colour and noise.
The frightened girl covered her ears and fell to the ground as the locomotive rocketed to its destination. The convoy’s force allowed the dollars to blow gently into the air and fall onto the empty tracks. She opened her eyes to find her father had gone. The only psychical piece of him that remained came in the form of a decapitated foot. Monika screamed for what seemed a lifetime, overcome by the shock that had now taken complete hold of her.
People from local communities heard the cries and came running to the crying girl’s scene, confused why she had been left alone so close to the railway line. The Incident soon brought sirens and uniformed men who were taping off areas for the forensics team to examine. I silently watched the police console the parentless child with a blanket before I was collected from the street and taken in for questioning.
As time went by, I would see Monika here and there on the farm where she grew from a young child to a troubled teenager. I saw her through the window as she bagged the farmer’s hard earned cash saved for a rainy day. It wasn’t long until she escaped with me, as we made our way under the seductive city lights’ influence.
In our newfound freedom, we spent a lot of our time together. Expensive hotels, designer clothes shops, champagne bars, and clubs were but a few of our daily sins. We would jump on planes and seek out adventure and freedom the colour of money warrants. Monika bought extravagant clothing and the best food the city could offer. The city was our playground while we climbed treehouses high in the sky. From its branches, we overlooked the clambering adults below who took residence in the shoes of children.
The good times could never sustain itself. I started to dry up, and Monika began to see less of me, using her time more constructively with new friends that used her solely for money and status. I couldn’t tell her the truth for obvious reasons. I looked back on my time and wished I could have found a way.
I spent my nights at the strip clubs close to her proximity, angry at the hold I had over her. I watched on in sadness as she danced on the stage in my presence, removing garment after garment to the cheer and delight of seedy men. As much as I adored her, I never did like getting in her knickers. After each shift, I found myself by her side at the bar with my face down on the table.
The years went on in this vein before the strip club stopped paying Monika when she was caught not only once but twice, dealing in the toilets. With no income and little support from myself, she sold her body to the highest bidder — night after night, client after client. The stench of sweat and cheap perfume corrupted the grubby bedsit, where she wallowed.
Through the smashed mirror on the bedside table, she would stare at the distorted reflection of men who would place their grubby hands on the small of her back, thrusting their pelvis back and forwards in fits of rage. The reflection consisted of a broken woman who had become numb to life, left to drown in puddles of her mascara.
With evil enemies and worse friends, Monika would temporarily escape to worlds beyond our windows, using syringes full of ketamine and smack. By association and against my will, I was soon rounded up and violently thrown onto her bed in pity. I touched her pale face, trying to ignore the stream of dribble hanging out of her gaping mouth. I was closer to her now than I had ever been, appalled by the purple-blue bruising on her arms stemming from years of abuse.
I try and remember Monika Gildeen as the young girl with a smile planted on her face, forever walking with her father next to the railway tracks. I blame myself, for if I had not been there on that fateful day, life might have been very different for Monika Gildeen. It is the price people pay. I feel there is no need to introduce myself to you, for we are already acquainted.
I am the root of all evil.
I am money.
Dean Middleburgh is a writer that has had the good fortune to write for P.S. I love you, The Junction, Invisible Illness, ILLUMINATION, The New North, and Storymaker. If you liked this story click the one below: