Sympathy For the Devil

1: 6 Months Later

I never understood why people wore black to funerals.

I began penciling in my journal. Amid the damning words, I drew flowers of all varieties to make even the cruelest of words beautiful. But rather than continue with the pattern of a rose, I began crossing out the written words wore-funeral. Then the word why became crossed off in sharpie, leaving "I never understood people"—a simple, unarguable statement.

 "I never understood people." 

I never understood my mother. 

She was happy.

 Why she would throw herself into the abyss is beyond me. 

She was happy. 

I repeated to myself as an effective mantra. 

But the mantra fell short of convincing, dwindling on the precipice of absolutely and irrevocably unconvincing.

 I began again.

 A syntax of words formed in my mind.

 She was happy. 

We were happy.

 I was happy. 

Now, I'm just a wilting flower with fallen petals, and she's a dead flower lacking roots, never to bloom again. The words fell flat yet again. I did not attempt another ill-fated lie to greet the tip of my tongue. Every lie burned the roof of my mouth like pre-maturely drinking a piping hot drink before it's cooled down even when you know better.

It's been six months since my mother passed away. 

The person who came up with the term passed away is an asshole. The term is only a brutal reminder that my mother is away and that I will never see her again or hear her again. 

I'm forgetting her voice. That's the first thing I began to forget, and soon, her voice won't even ring in my ears like a welcomed tinnitus. All I'll have are a few shaky cam videos that I took with my phone. But those videos are too hard to watch now. I can't even stomach the thought that I once considered my family normal. 

It's been six months since we all mourned over an empty box since my mother's remains were unsalvageable. The calendar pages ticked away and unraveled the remnants of who I used to be. And of who I yearned to be at one point. 

Now, I feel like the empty box. A box is meant to carry everything, whereas an empty box carries nothing but the burdens of what once was and what could have been, but will never become. 

Forget-me-nots broke the tip of my sharpie. The pressure of the flower being drawn, unbeknownst to me, had me stare at the page with a feigned look of sadness as the sharpie succumbed to the bitter force, snapping in half. Once you've spent all of your summer vacation with tissues covering your bedspread, the sadness wears off, and you are replaced with the feeling of emptiness, but without the capability of expressing your sadness on paper or your features. At least not expressing your emotions in a healthy way or using a healthy outlet. 

My outlet was negatively charged with long-lasting anger. Red hot anger that was hotter and fiercer than magma lava. This anger flares up when anyone is within the path of crazy Ellie. 

My features became more hardened rather than soft and childlike. My baby face is replaced with constant bags under my eyes and a shitty attitude. My red locks are now dyed permanently dark black with stray strands of red peaking through. The red was too vibrant a color to remain. 

I chopped off my hair until it reached above my shoulders, and I became someone different. A void depiction of myself. I looked troubled and I felt off. I was completely unhinged. There was no pit stop on this undesired rollercoaster. But there was the constant squeamishness that sloshed my insides together, churning guilt until it made me vomit. I always did have a guilty conscience and it sickened me when I lashed out at others, but the lash outs became addictive until everyone decided they were better off leaving me alone.