Letters For Indie

~Chapter 1~

A rose can never be a sunflower, and a sunflower can never be a rose.

All flowers are beautiful in their own way, just like women.

My mother was a definition of beautiful that no words put together could describe.

The soft, brown wavy locks, with delicate strands of auburn scattered like sunlight lighting up the darkest of rooms.

The radiant, hazelnut colored eyes with the slightest tint of crazy embedded in them.

An elfish face with a cute-as-a-button nose and crooked eyebrows.

I could say alot of stuff about my mother was crooked, but in the most beautiful of ways.

They say that perfection is achieved when there is nothing more to add, and when there is nothing left to take away.

But my mom defied every law of perfection there was, because she was a creation like no other, a godess and an angel.

She was my angel, just as I was hers.

I stood there in front of the mirror and thought.

Thought about what my mother would do, what she'd say, if she saw me here like this.

She'd hold me close and whisper into my ear, "Indila, you're a strong girl, okay? Come on, baby, I want you to get up and show me how strong you are."

And then she'd show me her set of pearly whites.

"Smile big for me baby."

And I, thinking that it would all be fine, would slowly get up, flash a quick smile, and walk out of that room knowing that my mother's arms would always be open if I needed comfort.

The woman who raised me, while struggling to complete her college degree.

The woman who supported me when I took my first baby steps, all the way until I was walking through the doors of our quaint, one story house in Marrowstone.

The woman who scraped up two years of her moderate salary to buy me a car.

The one who played the role of both mom and dad at every promotion, parent teacher conference, and birthday party.

She gave me a million things worthwhile, and I never got to thank her and tell her how much she meant to me.

I loved her more than life itself, and I lay awake at night thinking about how I'll never amount to even half as much as she was.

Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap.

Small droplets of salty tears cascaded down my cheeks.

I quickly used the back of my hand to wipe them away, and shuffled to put my mom's polaroid pictures back into their snug spot in my shoebox.

"Indie?"

I could hear Martin's muffled words through the door.

"Sweetheart, can I come in?"

The door creaked open and Martin's looming figure made it's way into my room.

"Do you like your room, Indie? I know it's small compared to the one you had back home, but look, it's got a view of the biggest beach in town."

He paced past me and yanked open the pale, blue curtains to reveal the grainy sand of Odessy Beach and people laughing and talking --- the view I had been dreading.

I flinched as the warm sunlight danced on my cheeks, but stayed quiet.

My father slowly made his way towards my quilted bed and sat down beside me. He put a single arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer.

I felt an uneasy jitter of nervousness.

His touch, the touch I had been aching for, for sixteen years of my life.

I remember laying awake at night and crying when I was little girl, because I didn't have a daddy like the other little girls.

A daddy who would teach his baby girl how to ride her bike, a daddy who would let me paint his nails and braid his cropped hair, even though it was embarrasing.

A daddy who would read me bedtime stories, and take me to the park.

A daddy who would be there for me, and give me his shoulder to cry on.

Martin glanced at me.

It was quiet for a good five seconds and he spoke, "Indie? Are you going to be ok? I'm here for you, you know."

No, Martin, you're not, and you never will be.

I flinched away from his touch, and rose from the bed.

"Excuse me, I, uh, I just need a minute."

I quickly rushed into the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and sank down against the door.

One.

And then two.

And before I knew it, countless tears were rushing down my cheeks and great big waves of pain were rolling off my chest.

I brought a fist into my mouth and bit down as hard as I could, to try and calm myself.

My body shook with each cry, and I dropped down to the tiled floor of the bathroom and curled up into a tight ball.

After what seemed like hours, I heard Martin sigh deeply, and the bed creaked as he got up and went downstairs.

I lay there frozen.

Crying the pain out didn't mean I was weak, because I wasn't. I had been through too much to come to the conclusion that I was weak.

To me, crying the pain away meant that I had tried to be strong for just too long.

For my angel.