The Taboo Topics

To not be Forgotten

My father used to say that my mother was beautiful, but I remember her to be rather average; mousy brown hair and expressionless brown eyes- nothing striking. there were no prominent characteristics- not even a particularly large nose, or protruding ears. Her entire face was constructed of just well proportioned and nothing, nothing at all, that would make you look twice.

He used to say she was wonderful, perfect, amazing... but she wasn't. She was just another avarage person; just a everyday run of the mill woman in her middle twenties. That was, until she died. Then his memories twisted her into something she wasn't. Then all of a suddden she was stunning and wonderful and he would sit in front of the fireplace and come out with some romantic rubbish I would never believe.

He never thought she was something special when she was alive and well. Surley If she was anything special, he would've done something? fought harder, anything? but no, he just sat back and watched it unfold. It was always yell, yell, yell, argue, argue, argue. A vicious and never ending cycle. Sometimes me and my little brother would listen by the door and listen to the muffled scream, straining for snatches of anything that would help our young minds too understand why they fought so much, eventually, I found out.

It was a few weeks before Christmas. That few weeks that every child goes crazy looking for their Christmas presents. I was no exeption. The first place that popped to mind was mummy's office. Where else would they be apart from the one place me and my little brother aren't allowed? I waited until mummy and daddy were having guests over and slipped unnoticed straight into the dragons den. I ran as fast as my little, stubby legs would take me, wanting to get it over and done with before someone notices my absence, to the desk. I yanked open the lowest draw, a little too hard and everything came tumbling out. My presents were there, but that wasn't what caught my attention. A single piece of paper was lying there. I, being the nosy little bugger I was, read it. I didn't understand most of it, but what I did understand, made anger quickly replace the curiosity that I had been feeling just moments ago. There was one thing special about my mum, she was dying.

I didn't talk too my dad for a week, which was very long too me considering I was a total daddy's girl, but I didn't talk too my mum for much longer than that. I felt a array of emotions, anger, saddness, but most of all, I felt betrayed. The only way I would even socialise with her was when I was yelling and screaming at her. I didn't realise that at the time that the last way I would remember her would be when I was angry at her.

On Christmas day I forgot all about being angry at my mum. I shook my little brother awake and together we barged straight into our parents room. we went up too our father first and poked his face until he awoke. when his blurry blue eyes popped open, me and my brother climbed on him. We sat quietly while our father lightly shook our mum awake. But she wouldn't. She just flopped hopelessly as our dad shook her. His shakes turned more urgent and hurried. That moment I realised she was gone. Before I had the chance to forgive her, she was gone, just like that.

That Christmas was probably the worst Christmas of my life. we all sat in complete silence while the paramadics covered her body to be taken to the morgue. Family came to the driveway, saw the ambulance, and slowly walked back to their cars. Out presents remained unopened. Their was no Christmas that year. Every year. A holiday that was meant to bring joy, turned into a mourning day.

I didn't cry at the funeral. I was in shock. I had thought she would die slowly; in a few months, years even, but no. One morning I woke up and she didn't. She was gone. She couldn't come back, not for me, not for anyone, even though I begged her too in my head... screaming at her for just a few more hours so I could talk to her one last time. But she was well past the point of no return when greif set in.

Slowly, everyone forgot about her. They employed someone else in her job at the bank. Dad got remarried and even Johnny, my little brother, calles her our new step-mum, mum now. I was carted off to a private school due too the fact that dad felt immense guilt looking at my face which greatly resembled my mothers. She was average. She was never special.

My mother was inescapably average; average looks, average job, average personality and an average death. Thats why everyone forgot her- averageness. Anyone can be average, and anyone can replace average.

Thats what I'm most scared of; slipping away into the back of everyones mind before I make a impact in the world. I'm scared that no one will remember me when I'm gone.

I'm scared that I'll just be average.

Average life, average looks, average death, like mother, like daughter.

Thats why I dyed my hair green, not to annoy Sheryl like dad seems to think (that's simply an added bonus), but so that I stand out, so that I look different. Green hair isn't average. I know it isn't much- its verging on the edge on pathetic- but that green hair dye is my last chance.

My time in this world is running out and I want it to be, no, I need it to be more than average.

One thing's for sure, I, Jane Sue Richardson, won't be forgotten.