Agorria

Chapter 1- That Night

As I stood in front of the hole in which my mother lay, I couldn't help think that she had gotten what she deserved. On the other hand, she was still my mother, and no one deserved the ultimate punishment of death. The rain was falling, slowly combining with the dirt, creating a shallow and watery grave. The priest had been speaking, but I couldn't register what he was saying. My mind wandered to the backpack hanging from my right shoulder. Upon remembering the reason the bag was needed, I froze. The memory of my mother's death invading my senses and whisking me back to that night.

It had been raining, just like it was now. Once upon a time, I had enjoyed the rain. I relished in it. Seeing the sky's tears let me know it was okay to cry. I had been on my way home from Unity, a dance studio I once attended when my father was still around. Since then, it's been abandoned to rot, but it was still a place I could consider my haven. It reminded me of a time when life was better.

It was 9:00 p.m. going on 10:00 p.m. Some teenagers complain of a curfew set by their parents. I wasn't scared, nor did I have one, to begin with. I wish I did, maybe it would've made it seem like she loved me. As I arrived at the steps of our beat-up apartment, something passed over me. A sense of calmness almost. Like the universe was trying to prepare me for what I was about to see. Something was unsettling, the quietness of the neighborhood. We lived on the bad side of town. You know, the place where the drug dealers and murders live. It was always rowdy around here. Gang wars were common, and at least once a night you'd hear a cry for help.

I reached for the doorknob, grasping it tightly, before swiftly yanking it to the side and pulling it towards me. The door swung open, making a high pitched noise as if it was about to fall off the hinges. There in front of me lay a dreadful sight. When I was younger, people saw me as a crybaby. I'll admit I cried a lot. Even so, I was unable to shed a single tear staring at my mother as she lay on the floor. She was pale. Too pale. She wasn't breathing either. I knew it would happen eventually, but nothing in the world can prepare you for death.

I rushed forward, throwing off my backpack and dance bag, kneeling before her. I checked her pulse. There was nothing. I grabbed her hands, and as I began begging for her to wake up, a thought crossed my mind. Her hands were as cold as ice, as cold as her heart was. I think I knew she was dead from the moment my eyes met her body, but I didn't want to believe it. I hoped that she would live, and this would show her the way the drugs were affecting her, but she didn't.

Above our apartment lived a sweet old woman too pure for this world. Her son dumped her at the apartment complex and ran away with her retirement fund. She heard my screaming, my begging. She called for an ambulance.

When the ambulance arrived they entered at the sight of me gripping her hands. I honestly couldn't tell you if it was out of sadness or anger. A paramedic grabbed me by my arm attempting to pull me away from my mother. I refused to budge, insisting that I remain by her side. As I was occupied with the first paramedic another grabbed me by my left. They continued to pry me away from my mother. Dragging me out, kicking and screaming, pleading for her to be okay. She was pronounced dead on the scene. Yet through it all, I didn't cry.

The officers that had come with the ambulance were waiting outside and preceded to escort us to the coroner's office. I waited in the reception area until they retrieved me. They handed me a paper, the autopsy report. I scanned through the sheet. Most of it was medical nonsense, but something caught my eye. In the right corner at the top of the page in bold red letters, it read "CAUSE OF DEATH-DIAMORPHINE OVERDOSE." Diamorphine. The word ran through my mind multiple times before it hit me. Heroin. She had overdosed on heroin. Since when had she started taking that.

The clearing of a throat in front of me startled me back into reality. In front of me stood the priest staring expectantly at me, as if he was a teacher staring at a student.