little mate • alpha pack

5 | little like the sympathy

' the flower looked down at the wooden floor '

EVERYWHERE SHE WENT, whispers filled the streets of the tiny town Beacon Hills. Sympathetic looks were thrown her way as the people of Beacon Hills stared at the girl who lost her mother and her father previously.

Everyone had found out about the brunette's father when Rose Mitchell spoke about her husband in the hospital to her dear friend, Melissa McCall. Someone had overheard the mothers and spread the word, and soon everyone knew, and every one pitied the new family that moved.

Beacon Hills loved the angel called Rose Mitchell. She was a blessing in disguise for everyone that ever encountered her.

The mother of Mia Mitchell, the singer known throughout the state, was very positive during her stay on Earth. She always looked up to the sky with her eyes filled with hope, always knowing that a better day and time would bestow on everyone.

There was so much to admire about Rose Mitchell, but her raw honesty was the best part. Everyone loved how her words spilt out really slow as if the truth could take its time.

It was as if there was a force behind them, yet the kind that is respectful and quiet - a determination that's observant and patient. She would never tell a little white lie to anyone, always telling people her honest opinion yet she was never rude. The words she spoke were chosen carefully from her wise mind.

Mia started down at the wooden floor; her hands shoved in her pocket as she avoided the looks of pity. The brunette trudged through the streets, soon walking into the place she visited more than her own house. The graveyard. The place where her mother was buried.

As the bodies of the beloved return their matter to the earth, their souls, ageless since birth, return to everyone's maker.

Mia let her feet tread lightly over the soils that support new spring growth, white-bells and green wands of grass, until she was right there, her doe eyes resting on her name. Mia's heart could hear the sound of her mother's voice as if she were right there with her.

Perhaps it is the memories that are the real bridge, that sense of loving a key to open doors into the worlds beyond, yet here she was in the graveyard, these moments of reflection of their everlasting bond. The bond between a mother and her daughter. It was the most reliable thing on Earth, a relationship so unique it lives on even though death.

"Hi, mum," Mia whispered as she sat down opposite the gravestone, not caring that she was dirtying her clothes.

Her legs were crossed as she drank a few sips of vodka from the metal coffee cup she borrowed from Kali. She had poured some alcohol into the cup from Deucalion's secret compartment that she could always find, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. It was one of her gifts. She could find anything if she put her mind to it.

Mia stared at the engraved writing on the black marble. Her eyes were fogging up with tears as her heart began to hurt; she felt as if someone was squeezing her heart, making it hard to breathe correctly.

' rose mitchell '
' loving mother and friend '

Her favourite quotes were written on the bottom in her own handwriting, one that had Mia breathing shakily.

' wherever life plants you, bloom with grace. '

The growling of her stomach grew as she let out a dejected sigh. Running a hand through her hair, Mia pushed it back as she inhaled deeply.

It's been days since she's eaten and food. It wasn't like she was starving herself though, she just had no appetite. Even the smell of food disgusted her. Her mother was always the best at cooking, in her opinion. Any dish she made always turned out fantastic, even if it was something she didn't like at the time.

"How could this happen?" Mia never saw it coming. She never would've expected it. Her mother always told her everything, why not this?

The brunettes muscles ached from the nights of hunching over, crying. Sobbing desperately, hoping that if she cried enough, all the emotions would soon run out and she would feel better. But it hasn't run out yet.

"How did I not see it coming?" she asked herself the same question repeatedly, seeking for the logical part of the answer that she must have missed the first time.

The cruel cycle of recalling every recollection and replaying it back begins. Over time the crisp memories would blur, and the question would remain:

"Why?"