I Know Why The Caged-Bird Sings

I Know Why The Caged-Bird Sings

February 2014

Abigail Tapley

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My life is a series of roses in my face. Red, white, colours of every colour. Beautiful, and fare. But some day it's going to get you with thorns, small but painful. What a gorgeous oxy-moron a rose is. Beautiful, but painful. Owen told me to write in this, a empty book of my life of my life. "Shiloh Anne? I want you to write only the best things that have happened in your life." I don't know about you, but I don't want to bare you with all of my shit. Instead, I will present you with a rose as Owen had done for me.

"Shiloh?!" Mother asked from downstairs. I hid my phone under one of my blankets, and crossed my legs. "Yeah, mom?!" I yelled back, turning down the music on my IPod, and stuffing the portable speaker into my bag. "Come here for a second." I sulked to myself as I came down the stairs, wondering what I did wrong now.

In the small white kitchenette, my mother was on the ground, her legs twisted underneath her, and her arms bloody. "Mom?" My hand raised to my mouth, and I didn't know what to do. The white floors had new splotches of red stains that reminded me of small ladybugs on foxgloves. I tried to place myself in a happy place. A small garden, filled with large plants, and water fountains, but this was no time to be thinking of such happy thing.

She moaned in pain, and I backed up against a wall. "Patrick!" I screamed, digging my nails into my skin. I heard Patrick's steadfast footsteps coming down the hall, and he turned the corner, seeing the scene. "Mom!" He yelled running to her side. "Shiloh, go get the phone." Okay? That's Patrick. Is he going to help? What would dad have done? "SHILOH!" He yelled at me, me snapping back. I knew it was urgent, but I just couldn't. What just happened? Is my mom okay? "SHILOH?!" Patrick yelled, pulling through from my thoughts. "Go get the phone!"

Finally, my feet started to move again, and twisting through the corridors of the house, that felt so unfamiliar at this moment. Grasping the white phone I quickly threw myself around, back toward the kitchenette. My mother was passed out now, and Patrick was trying to stop the blood with his nice pressed shirt. "Patrick here." I tossed him the phone, and he grabbed it, pressing three buttons and putting it up to his ear.

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 "You kids did your best, the best to stop the bleeding, but she had been doing it to often. It was just her time to go." One of the guests said, patting me on the shoulder, then returning into the throng. Patrick wasn't here. He doesn't believe in funerals, never did never will. The thing I hate about this one is that they call it a 'Celebration Of Life', This is a funeral where you are aloud to mourn here, and celebrate their lives by living yours.

The food was sour, and crusty in places. Mold took over the bread so we weren't able to have a lot of food which we planned. Now, as I sit on the steps of the Catholic Church, with my cheap Dixie cups and plastic plates full of Doritoes, and square pretzels, I close my eyes. Not for a long time, but I think of the past. My mom and dad still here, a happy Patrick, or our old dog, Jack, playing in the yard. Or rollerskating, Watching TV. Eating dinner. A normal family again.

Then it all ended with a tap of my shoulder.

"What the hell?!" I yelled whipping around. A guy stood. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a mop of dark hair and heavy, solemn brows, that were offset by a boyish grin. a pair of eyes the colour of sea glass gleamed at my own puffy pale ones. "Wow, sorry, just wanted to see if you wanted company. Oh, and you might not want to say the 'H' word in a Catholic Church." He smirked, sitting down next to me.