Standing at the grave of Elizabeth Combs, with tears silently flowing down my cheeks. I, Isabella Combs, standing here, on my own, dreading death and feeling angry for the dead. My mother, gone, never to see her dazzling smile and caring eyes again, no one to confide in.
I'm on my own, no longer a team, but a solo act, aimlessly disagreeing and not seeing the truth. Somehow hoping that she will magically appear behind me, and comfort me like she always had. But that won't happen anymore, and I feel so hollow, like there's a big gaping hole inside my chest. Incapable of speech, my tears the only indication of my awareness. She was gone, and was never coming back.
YOU ARE READING
In The Painting
FantasyStanding at the grave of Elizabeth Combs, with tears silently flowing down my cheeks. I, Isabella Combs, standing here, on my own, dreading death and feeling angry for the dead. My mother, gone, never to see her dazzling smile and caring eyes again...
