I don't recall what made me think to wake up at that peculiar moment. All I know for sure is merely through instinct. A screaming conscience shrieking, "Get the fuck up! Something is wrong. Very wrong."
My heart leapt to my throat when I climbed out of my bed. I cautiously stepped across my room and put an ear to the wall. My mother was not snoring, in fact I couldn't even here her breathing. Yes, something is wrong, terribly wrong.
I was half expecting her to be in the bathroom puking up her dinner as well as her gin. Oh, how I was wrong! My palm slipped on the smooth door knob with sweat. I held my breath, shut my eyes, and stepped through the threshold. I yelped with fright as my eyes stared in horror.
What I saw before me will forever be etched within my memory. Her skin so grey, so cold. Her mouth hanging slightly ajar. Her eyes were a dulled brown, a color without it's light, without it's livelihood. A thin line of crimson trickled down her throat as the rope cut into her fragile skin. Clutched in her hand was a letter. A piece of her held so tightly in the grasp of death. This letter was addressed to me, and only me.
My breath caught as one single thought drifted through my mind:"Why am I not grieving, why don't I feel pain?" As if to answer my question, I took her letter. In my hands could be anything. Maybe even the answer to my questions. One can only hope for the answers.
Scrawled thinly across the worn paper were two words that I knew very well were never ever uttered by my mother: I'm sorry. Can two simple words cripple you from strength? Crush you to vulnerability? Tears burned in my eyes, seared my cheeks. I cried out like never before. My brick wall crashed down on me. With my guard down, there was only pain, only weakness. I held my head in my hands as I shook with sobs.
How was I to know her apology was genuine? She can't expect me to forgive her for this. After everything she did to me, she still begs my forgiveness for killing herself. What a selfish bitch! I will not feel grief for my mothers death, it is not my place. She showed no kindness, no sympathy toward me. Yet she would rather die than to start now.
So I say this as I have said it many times before, she was no mother to me. But then again, who is?
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A Color With Love
أدب المراهقينSofie Anne Martez was not born into love. She had to earn it, to a very high price. Her mother, an alcoholic with a rather abusive nature, committed suicide. And no, she can't go running to her dad because thanks again to her mother, he's dead. She'...
