Little Fire

October 21st

October 21st

I learned a long time ago that life isn’t fair and things never turn out the way you want them to.  Every event in my life has caused me heartache and pain.  My father was a loser before he met my mother.  She didn’t want him, so he took her;  stole her innocence in a methamphetamine induced rage.  She was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.  Like most of the beautiful women that get raped or murdered.  I guess mom was a lucky one, that’s what she always said.  At least he didn’t kill her.  I have someone else to thank for that.  I think about her, and write to her everyday, but today is especially tough.  My mother was taken from me on my 16th birthday, two years ago.  She was driving me to a party my best friend was throwing for me.  Mom wanted so badly to have her own party for me and I refused.  She had to realize that we weren’t going to be all-time best buds forever.  This was my night of proclamation.  On the way to Jonna’s, she begged me to let her join the fun.  She promised not to embarrass me.  I knew she wouldn’t; my mother was the most intelligent, beautiful, absolute coolest woman I ever knew.

 She made me aspire to be just as awesome.  I think it was because she was so young when the pregnancy happened.  It was difficult for her to accept being a rape victim at seventeen, and even more so to accept the illegitimate offspring that was the result.  But she prevailed.  She fought her way through college to support me, and graduated with honors.  She was a clinical psychologist at Mumford Housing Facility for the last six years of her life.  She spent every penny on me.  I had everything I wanted, but that all backfired on my not so sweet sixteen.   We arrived at my friend’s house on top of the hill, mom still begging to come in, just for a minute.  I pleaded as nicely as I could, “Please, mom, not this time.  I love you, but I really want this.”  Of course she gave in; she always gave in to me.   She told me she loved me and began to back down the macadam driveway, which opened up to another hill on the highway.  As I looked back at her, she continued to wave through her tears.  I had broken her heart.  I blew a kiss and trudged up the stairway of the embellished Victorian.  One last glance as my mom’s Volvo disappeared around the bend.  I turned my back on her for the last time.

The sound startled me but I knew exactly what it was.  Screaming rubber and twisting metal.  I spun around, dropped my backpack and trampled down the stairs, bellowing my mother’s name.  My friends plundered through the door, traipsing behind me, quizzing me as I stumbled onto the gravel.  Their voices were distant and garbled.  I didn’t feel the gravel abrade my skin as I clamored to regain an upright running stance.  Several times the tiny stones gave way, plowing my face into the ground.  My vision blurred, I was peering through a veil of blood by the time I realized I was gasping for air.  I had screamed myself hoarse and evacuated my lungs with sobbing.  I ran hard, but the driveway seemed unending.   I remember the fall that catapulted me around the corner; I still have bits of gravel lodged in my knee.  Then I saw her.  I didn’t take note of the mangled car or the semi that pinned it against the cliff.  I saw my mother, partially dismembered, her beautiful face torn away, the remainder of it riddled with tiny brown and orange pebbles.   She was obviously thrown from the car when the semi barreled into the hatchback and slammed into the moss covered wall.  Fragments of moss lay in her golden hair while other tendrils were soaked in the blood that oozed from her cracked scull.  I fell to my knees next to her disfigured body, laid my head on her chest, and heard nothing but my own staggering sobs.  By the time my friends rounded the corner, I was out of it.  I heard them once more, their morose, unintelligible chatter amongst the horrified gasps.  I remember blacking out, strangely enough, but nothing more. 

I don’t remember the paramedics, the hospital, the funeral, or anything else about her death.  I remember my pain.  My grandparents weren’t the sort to care for children, they had disowned my mother, blaming her for the rape, and never acknowledged me.  Jonna’s parents were quick to speak up for me.  Though I was grateful for their love, patience, and psychotherapy, I didn’t want them, and it tore the hell out of my relationship with Jonna, so I left.