Paint You Wings

"A suicide?" I repeat the word. It's so foreign. I've never really dealt with depression in my family, but hearing that my moms thought-to-be-murder was actually a suicide is... heart wrenching. I feel the tears coming.

The doctor nods. "Her body shows an overdose."

"I thought she was suffocated?" I choke out.

"It turns out the pills she took caused an allergic reaction. Her lungs failed shortly after she took them, in which the theory of suffocation was formed."

I clench my fists. I'm starting to get angry, I know. But I don't know why. "So... my mom killed herself?"

"Yes, I'm so sorry. I can have one of the doctors drive you home or you can phone a family member or a friend...?"

I wave a hand at him. "I'll just call my dad." I walk over to the phone as the doctor soon turns his attention to the women next to him complaining about some stomach pains. I dial my dads number and it rings three times before he answers.

"Hello?" His tired voice echoes through my head.

"Dad?"

"Annabelle? Is everything alright?"

The doctors hadn't phoned him, I presume. "It's mom." I exhale deeply to keep myself from crying. "She's um... she committed suicide. The doctors said her lungs failed due to an allergic reaction from the pills she took. She's dead." That does it. My lower lip curls over and a sob escapes me as a few tears trickle down my cheeks.

I hear a jingle from the other end of the line. "Let me just get dressed. What hospital are you at? Why didn't you call me sooner? Did you find her?" He throws question after question at me making me cry harder.

I think back to walking into the bathroom, finding her limp body turning a shade of blue. Her hand was pressed tightly against her throat. When I moved it, I revealed bruises from a hand. I had thought someone was in the house. Knowing what I know now, I was wrong.

I tell my dad the hospital through tears and we hang up after he confirms he's coming to get me. I know it's going to take a while. My dad moved from Miami to Tampa when they separated. Ever since then, we hadn't really talked. They got a divorce when I was seven. I'm now seventeen. My dad had been remarried- to the women he cheated with. My mom still hadn't fully recovered from the divorce, especially the loss of money. My dad may have left the house and me, but he took everything else. Bank accounts, furniture, credit cards, and all money hidden around the house. I had to get a part time job. I'm failing three classes and my boss is always pissed at me. My mom turned to marijuana. I knew I should've been worried, but I wasn't. Because I too found a way to cope. I turned to sex. Boyfriend after boyfriend, I turned into a spitting image of my father. I look like him. That's what my mom always said. I never resented him. I knew their marriage wasn't a good one. It was bound to happen. Even at such a young age, I expected it.

My mom never seemed the least bit sad, sure she spent her time in her room while I was out or at school, but when I was home she came out -high or not- and made dinner and spent time with me.

I never saw the signs.

I sit in the waiting room, crying. Many nurses come and ask if I'm alright. If I need something. I simply answer no and give them a weak smile, then they move on.

Finally, four hours later, my dad shows up. I'm asleep when he shakes my shoulder and embraces me.

"Are you alright, honey?"

I wrap my arms around his back. "Yeah, sure." I look around. "Where's Cleo?" Cleo is his mistress, my now stepmother.

"She's away on a business trip."