(Chapter One get fucking ready for suicidal thoughts because this is terribly depressing((;;; fuck yeah. and dude don't like,,, hold back. tell me all the shit i need to fix because i know this is really bad, i need help improving and shit idk. so yeah i hope you at least remotely enjoy this depressing emo ass shit, the kellic will happen eventually, trust me(((; )
I wasn't aware that my mother was dead while she was dead. The fact is rather thought provoking. I didn't suddenly feel something at the absence of my mother, I didn't drop to my knees at the unbearable pain of my mother's lack of life. My heart didn't skip any beats and my feet didn't waver. My mother, for the first time in my life, wasn't sharing the air with me. The oxygen was all mine, and I didn't even falter.
As my mother lay, suffering heavily, I was exchanging laughter. While my mother fought the scorching pain, seeping and setting her body to flames, praying for mercy from a God she never even settled her faith in, I was texting her hollow contact, letting her know I'd be home by 8:30 and to save me dinner.
Logically, it made no sense to have a physical reaction to knowledge you hadn't even learned yet. I wasn't dreading the day I'd recoil at the empty feeling in my chest, I wasn't expecting a pang of sorrow to strike me and throw me into a fit of hysteria, I knew well that wasn't how things worked. But I would look back at those moments of oblivion, ignorance, I would feel guilty and disgusting at times. I'd ask myself foolish questions, how could I have not known? How did I feel nothing? The answer was dreadfully obvious and I wasn't stupid, just stubborn and restless.
The funeral was bullshit, to be frank. I didn't cry during the first portion of the service. I didn't feel my throat tighten or blink away the insistent tears in my eyes, my heart didn't wrench at the photo of her on display, my stomach didn't turn at her name being spoken with strained, obliterated voices.
When I was kindly asked to speak during the service, I obliged, knowing my mother would certainly be embarrassed of her son for refusing to participate. She always had been insistent that I show everyone my potential, as she would phrase it. My mother wanted everyone to know that her son, Kellin Quinn, was overflowing with capability and intelligence. I wanted to provide them all with that, I really did, but the oh-so great Kellin Quinn was simply a figure of my mother's imagination and nobody else was quite as fazed by my overwhelming ability. I guess that's a mother's job, though, having faith in children when there is clearly no hope.
I rose from my chair and made my way through the rows of people, all giving me pitiful stares. I looked at the floor for the most part, but I could feel the concerned eyes follow me to the front of the room. I straightened out a few pieces of paper, looked up at the room, and spoke.
"I didn't actually write shit," I explained, noticing a few eyes drawn to the sheets of paper I held. "this is just a poem. It's pretty relevant to the situation, as my mother has seemingly died. So, uh, this poem's called The Bustle in a House by Emily Dickinson. You probably read about her in high school or something.
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth.
The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity." I recited the poem, eyes not leaving the paper. When I looked up, I saw expecting, judgmental eyes. They all hounded me and saw through me as if I were glass. I'd imagined my mother quite a few times as stained glass, just shattering and destroying something so beautiful. The beauty will never be the same again and as you try picking up the pieces, you're bound to get cut on the edges.
