Broken

'Till Death Do We Part

         I was 8 when I last saw my family. Their wide smiles and tan skin, only a distant memory buried deep between my bitter and desperate thoughts. I still have a portrait of us all, Mama's rose pinned into her hair, Miguel's messy greased back hair, and Papa's stubbly chin. I can't remember a time when I smiled since then. My eyes pool when I remember the day I learned of their deaths.

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     My parents were going to visit my grandmother who had fallen ill in Mexico. I stayed back with Aunt Cecilia because I was too young to go. For 4 days I had a feeling that my family wouldn't come back, that something might happen to them. Auntie Cecilia had tried to calm me down, of the nightmares that I too often gave into. On bad days, I dreamed of knives and death.  I would shake uncontrollably and cry in the middle of the night some days, waking from the nightmares. Others, I would just stare outside through the stain-glassed windows of the kitchen in silence. Something just wasn't right. 

    One sunny Friday, when I was feeling less weepy over my parents, Auntie and I peeled oranges in the shade of mangrove trees and sipped lemonade in the backyard. My aunt smiled at me and gave little talk from time to time. I had forced myself that day to stay calm and not worry about my parents. We heard the phone ring and Aunt Cecilia walked over to answer.

   Her face changed just as a chameleon would in the midst of danger. Her face flickered from happiness to distraught to emotionless. I couldn't hear what she said, but I strained against the lawn chair to hear what she had heard. 

   " Y-Yes. . . I understand. Goodbye."

     She hung up the phone and wearily walked over to me. She sat down in her lawn chair and slumped down. She took a couple of breaths, holding her forehead in her hand. Aunt Cecilia looked up at me and spoke, "A-Alanna, sweetie, I hate to break it to you, but well. . . I hope you know I did not wish this fate for our loved ones. I think you're old enough to understand me when I say this: your family has died."

     My dark eyes searched hers as if this was a lie. Tears started falling onto my cheek. I jumped out of my chair.

   "Tell me this isn't true! It's not true! They're still alive!" I shouted, covering my ears and cowering on the ground.

   "They died in a car accident. The hospital nurse informed me of their condition, sweetie. They can't be saved. . ." she tried to tell me.

    "AAAAHHHH! I can't hear you!" I screamed drowning out her voice.

    "Ally! They're dead!" Aunt Cecilia yelled.

    I remember screaming on and on, trying to convince myself that Miguel, Mama, and Papa were still alive and well. 

     Suddenly, I felt a hard shake on my arm. I stopped screaming and let my hands fall to my side.

    Auntie's voice grew small. "Your family is dead. I'm sorry Alanna." 

   "I'm sorry too, Auntie." My lip quivered and I rushed inside the house.

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    I lived with my aunt for 2 more years, until I couldn't take it anymore, I ran away. Everything in her house reminded me of my family. The smell of roses; Mama's perfume. The tweeting of birds in the morning and Aunt Cecilia's favorite Operas on the television: Miguel's pet birds and Papa's singing.

     I had run only 1.5 miles from home, arriving in a big city (Auntie lived just outside the city). By then, I was sweating like a pig and covered in dirt. People stared at my dirt-covered overalls and I just stared back at them. I scrounged around for anything I could put to use, before settling in an old alleyway. I lay on top of what I assumed was a trash bag filled with plastic bottles, based on the cracking sound. For about 5 minutes, I took in the rotten egg smell and dank, wet, floors and wished I was back at Auntie's house.

 I only spent a day and a half by myself before I was taken to an orphanage by Child Care.