Rob says: I wrote this when I was in my sophomore year of High school as a prologue for a book I tried to do. I only got to page 50 before it died. I haven't edited it since then but I keep this file around because it reminds me of the time I decided that I wanted to write just for the pleasure of creating.
The first time I saw death, I was 5 years old. I didn't really know what death was. I just thought it made people sad and cry. My aunt had died of breast cancer, even though I saw her in a casket I was jealous. She could sleep till daytime and no one got mad at her.
When they put her under ground to say I was mad was not even close to it. She was doing things I wished I could. Yet when I saw my mom tears I refrained from voicing those words. Even as a small child I knew when to speak and when to hold back. Afterwards, I remember everyone coming to my maternal grandparents' house and giving us food. I didn't know what it meant, all I thought about was the food.
That's when my brother came and told me that our aunt was dead. He had been crying and he was tired of me acting like I didn't care. Yet still I didn't know what death meant. So I continued my naïve self thinking until I kept wondering why my aunt hadn't come yet. We had just seen her a month ago. When I asked my mom, she broke out crying. My dad came and held her, my brothers just kept telling how much of a stupid girl I was.
I guess that was when I started to realize something was wrong. My dad later on that day sat me down and told me she was never coming back. She was gone to heaven with God and the angels. I was sad but I thought it was cool she went to heaven. She was with the angels, once again I was jealous of my aunt's luck.
The next time I saw my aunt was a year later. We went to celebrate or mourn her death, I was 6 years old and still didn't understand the weird ways our traditions went. For the first time since her funeral I saw the white stone. The stone that prophesied her birth and death. My mother cried again, it was her sister. I didn't cry; I was never close to her. She liked my brothers more. My dad look sad and my brothers tried not to cry. In my family, most men didn't cry and I never understood that.
My father had taken my mother to walk around before she got inside the car. She was still shaken by seeing her sister for the first in a year since her death. My brothers went to the car to wait. I stayed, to this day I still don't know why. I guess I just wanted to know this ritual we give to our dead. I had wonder what made my aunt so special to have this work pronounce her death.
I stood there looking at her grave for a few more moments. I was never close to my aunt so I didn't feel any of this bad feelings my family was experiencing. So I tried to imagine my brothers but I couldn't fathom it. So, like every six year old would, I forgot about it.
All I learn that day was that when I died I would also have a stone with my name.
A year later I was put into a school run by nuns. There I learn the religion my parents practice. I never understood religion. So bloody and violent, I wonder how it could be called holy. Yet I believed in God and his Word. I followed what the nuns told me yet they would hit me for the slightest things, like having my skirt a little above my knee no matter the inch.
By the time I was 8 the classes were all girls. I didn't understand why we couldn't have class with the boys. Still I accepted it, it had become my reality to rely on adults. My mother had instill the fear of defying an authority figure, cops were the worst for me. I couldn't even look at them in the eyes. I guess you could say I had a problem but I had become use to the fear. The fear of defying them, the fear of not doing it. They where in higher position than me therefore I could not go against them.
