Taming Of The Bitch

Prologue

It's on the unnoticeable days, or sometimes the beautiful days, when your life is destroyed.

Everything in your world explodes into colours resembling dark green, neon orange and dark brown. The most hated.

The sun is beaming down on you with it's orange haze, blue stretches across the sky, for us humans to look up at and smile from land, at perfect length for the universe to keep its beauty.

Do you know why we are so far away from the sun?

Because if we could make the decision to be closer, we would ruin it's beauty. We would sell it, change it, yell at it, until it's worn.

It would become a blob in the sky that's an upsetting grey, and it will cry above us, so when we look up, it won't make us smile, it'll make us frown.

It'll make us cold, so we can feel the emptiness of our hearts, and be burdened with it as did the once beautiful sun.

There's no specific reasoning as to why dreadful life changing experiences happen on the days nature around us smiles.

Maybe they cursed it upon us, to deal with anger and sadness when we could go to the beach so we don't manufacture nature's beauty.

I don't know.

Maybe it's coincidental.

There's not really an explanation for many things we experience.

Why did my mum die?

"... A moment in time, don't watch me cry."

All I can do is let my heart bleed.

My earphones blast the sweet melody of Jorja Smith's voice into my ears, her smooth mix of jazz and symphony orchestra is what causes tears to fall from my eyes.

It didn't run in our generation, none of my family or my late family ever had it.

Yet it happened to her.

Her beautiful, beautiful heart collapsed amongst the most hideous of us.

The rotten live, and the beautiful crumple.

Jorja sings the tunes of my mother's voice and even though the similarity is precise, it's also so different.

Like my mum is the sun, and Jorja is the ground.

Light years away, yet just as beautiful.

I almost can't remember her voice, even though it was the last of her to leave.

Although she stopped singing us the disease ate her. Her beauty was replaced with howls of pains, not from the disease, but the medicine.

The medicine is what killed her the most.

And not one single person visited her. Only me.

After an hour of sterilisation, changing clothes, and covering my entire body in a bodysuit that mimicked a suit you'd wear so bee's don't attack you.

And only for half an hour I was allowed to hold her fragile decomposing body.

People like Donald Trump never get sick. They grow, they get amazing opportunities.

My Mum poured her heart and soul into raising me and my three siblings. She smiled everyday, and she sang sweet lullabies to me every night.

And then, during a family barbeque, a perfect twenty one degrees outside, her wedding ring finger turned black.

Her finger fell off two hours afterwards, when she was lying on the hospital bed.

Two months after that day, I was called to the hospital during a test at school.