It's Jessalyn

Prolouge

The hospital always smelled pristine, it held no death. I wondered if it was for every hospital, that the chairs were comfortable and the room was as beautiful as Saint Mary’s.

My fingers grasped my mother’s frail ones, and I held them to my face, breathing in and out. I was weakened, my soul deprived of the safety and reassurance that indeed my mother will survive; she will fight for her life. But the past few months I seen her fall apart, I seen her mind being destroyed—she wouldn’t fight for her life, not then and not now.

“Are you the daughter of Evelyn Hughes?” A man nearly bald asked me, his face void of emotions. Once I nodded he took out his hand and shook mine. “I’m Dr. Mather, your mother is in critical condition. We don’t know how much the drugs affected her organs, you said you found her like this?”

I numbly nodded again, my eyes gazing at my mother’s motionless form and quickly looked back at the person in front of me, his eyes flashing with sympathy.

“Is there any guardian or parent I can speak to?” Dr. Mather looked down to his folder. “It says you’re seventeen years of age.”

My words stumbled out of my mouth, “My dad, my dad is coming from America, I called him yesterday. He’ll be here soon.”

The doctor sighed before he patted my back as if I was a shivering animal. “Usually we don’t get involved with our patients but-” The man glanced down once again at the folder. “Stay strong, alright Jessalyn?”

“Thank you,” I replied.

Yet no matter how strong I was, it couldn’t save my mother. She died three hours later just when my father arrived in England. I don’t remember much of how she died, all I can recall was the rhythm of her heartbeat quickening, and a nurse shoving me out of the room. It was silent after the frenzy of noises, all I could focus on was the flat line from the machine and Dr. Mather’s words.

“Time of death 7 AM.”

*****

We decided that the burial will be held on Friday, it was Wednesday when she died. Dr. Mather told me that he did what he could and that it was too late once she was brought into the hospital, I started to question if it was my fault. I always came home right after school just as my mother commanded me to, but that one day I decided to go to the art club and have actual fun.

She probably waited for me, and when she realized I wasn’t coming she must’ve panicked and overdosed on painkillers.She couldn't be alone, not when she was scared about everything around her.

I stood in my bare bedroom and brushed my red hair with my fingers. My fault, I wasn’t strong enough for her when she was alive. 

“Time for the funeral Jess,” my father spoke. It’s been two years since I last seen him, he looked altogether like he did when my mother and I had left him. Clean, controlled, and compromised, Daniel Northbrooks, my famous father in California, couldn’t shed a tear for his dead ex-wife.

A heavy feeling once bloomed in my chest every time I seen him. His dark hair, his green eyes, his empty smile, I was identical to him.

Was that what killed my gentle mother? Because she seen him in me for two years? Strangely, I didn't care about that anymore, I didn't mind I was strikingly similar to my father. Who would care? The only person who did was gone. 

I yelled back, “I’m almost finished.”

My funeral outfit was simple: a black dress and my hair styled behind my face. The window in front of me showed a reflection of myself, I was normal or at least appeared normal. I glanced up at the bloody sky and was awed at the uncommon view, the sky was mainly dark or bright from where I lived, never colorful. 

The sun was setting I noticed; the funeral would be blanketed by my mother's favorite color. A laugh bubbled in my throat yet the tears streamed down my face once I imagined how she would be when her body is laid to rest. 

Her face would have the once healthy glow like she had three years ago, her blonde hair haloed around the slim shoulders, and her eyes—the sad blue eyes would follow the casket around and cry when it would be lowered down to the ground. My mother would find me staring at her and for a motherly purpose, she'd put her pale hand to my cheek. Her face would reassure me like they did in the past. 

"Oh god," I choked on my tears, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." My body crumbled down to the bedroom carpet.

The feeling of guilt, of regret, and of pain overpowered me that day.