And So She Burned

3. Dark Heart, Cold Stone

We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell. --Oscar Wilde.

When mom's lawyer came, I was a mess. My life felt like it was something out of a book. This couldn't be real. But when he came, he informed me that mom had left a letter for both me and Ella, should anything happen to her, along with her money split between us and some other items.

But it was the letter I tore into. I had to have some of her words. I needed something other than this dark and empty hole inside of me.

I don't have a mom anymore.

But I do have a few remaining paragraphs of her guidance.

Dear Auna,

Something terrible has happened to me if you're reading this. Maybe I'm dead, maybe I'm in a coma and nothing can wake me. But in any case, I cannot speak to you.

Your grandmother knows everything. I know that she's not dead, because if she were I would have written a new letter.

Ask her about the Trinity. She can tell you.

You aren't crazy.

I love you, and I hope that despite the Trinity, you'll be able to have a normal life. A happy life. Oh, and tell any future love interest that I obviously won't kill them if they hurt you, but you are more than capable of dismembering them.

And I will always be with you, no matter what. Don't forget that.

Goodbye,

Mom.

It's strange how words can give you such vivid and uncensored pictures. If I read a poem about how lust and love are tied together, I could have visions of a red rose in an otherwise barren field. Or two lovers under the moonlight, grasping for each other like tomorrow they'll die. Which they very well may. Or if I read a poem or story about young, innocent love, I think of delicate touches, dancing through a field of silver flowers, and fireflies at midnight.

Sometimes I think of a young priestess from ancient times, worshipping her dark goddess in a temple of moonstone and a dress of flowing silk.

But I see no pictures from my mother's letter. They are just cold, hard words that leave no room for other understanding.

What is the Trinity? That is the only valid question, the only thing that should be thought of—or perhaps it is not, and it is just all that I can think of.

I looked up, glancing at my sister, still reading her letter. Does she know what the Trinity is? Or does her letter say the same thing as mine?

When my sister finally put her letter down, she pressed her hand to her mouth and rushed upstairs, tears in her eyes.

I started to stand to follow her, ask what was wrong, but I didn't really trust this lawyer. I didn't know him.

I stared at the lawyer, dead in the eye. "Is there anything else you wanted," It didn't come out as a question. He needs to get out now.

The lawyer, whose name is Harold something-or-other, hesitantly stood. "Well, one more thing. We live in the state of Minnesota, where you can be emancipated under a few conditions. Legal marriage, or parental permission. And, in her will, your mother said that upon her death, you were to be declared an emancipated teen."

My jaw dropped. Why would she do that? What was the point, if she wanted me to ask my grandmother about something called 'The Trinity?' "So . . . Does that mean I have to move out?"