Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Or when my father disappeared for days on end, forcing the staff to take care of me like I was their child, only to come back out of his basement that I’m forbidden from entering.
And not even when my mother told me she had never really wanted me.
None of those made me feel the way I do now. It’s like my nerves are shutting down, buzzing slowly as they stop sensing anything around. No matter how many times someone pats me on the shoulder or offers me a fake smile or a hug, nothing registers.
All I can do is stare at this frame standing on the table next to me, a hand-painted picture of my mother. The way her hand rests on her lap as though she’s comfortable in her place. But she never was.
Her eyes always skittish, her body always frail to the touch. Every time I came too close, she would shoo me away. I always thought it would go away with time, but the longer it lasted, the worse it became until she no longer wanted to see me at all.
And then she got her wish granted.
I sigh out loud while glancing at her urn, whispering a wish to myself that I’d never say out loud.
“You want her to stay dead forever?”
Wide-eyed, I spin on my heels, my hand rising to meet this new threat as I’m overcome with rage.
But the petite frame of a little girl stops me midair, her doe-like eyes blinking at me as though she doesn’t even know the magnitude of her question. She cocks her little round head, her black hair framing her face as her pink cheeks grow bigger from the cute smile that appears on her face.
“You shouldn’t wish for those things.”
I frown, grinding my teeth. “How would you know?”
She fishes her tiny wallet from her pocket and takes out two small pictures tucked away, rubbing her lips together. “I keep them here with me always. Even when they’re not there.”
I swallow and clutch the table behind me. “You lost a parent?”
She rubs her lips together and looks down at the floor while sticking up two fingers.
“Both?” I suck in a breath. “Wow. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay … It’s been a year now.”
“Still, sounds rough,” I reply as I look down at my own feet, thinking about what I did. “Especially because they loved you.”
I said those words out loud. Even when I knew I shouldn’t, I said them anyway because that’s what I felt deep down. Because knowing my mother has been more painful than I think not knowing her would have been.
Suddenly, the girl grabs my hand. The touch is subtle but intense. Like an earthquake underneath your own two feet that no one else can feel, shaking you to your core.
And instead of pulling away, like I always do when someone tries to touch me, I freeze and let the warmth of her touch overcome me. The rage coiling around my heart, squeezing it tight, releases its grip, if only for a second until the little girl lets go again.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
Sorry.
Like it could erase the pain.
Like she even knows me.
Yet these words of this strange kid make me feel something for the very first time since I came to this funeral home.
“Even if you hated your mom …” she adds. “She didn’t deserve to die.”
I lower my eyes as my hair falls over like a curtain to hide my shame as my hands form fists. “I didn’t hate her.” The silence is thick between us as the others mingle and talk, but our silence says more than their words ever could.
“She hated me for existing,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Maybe she was just scared and confused,” the girl replies. “Maybe she had all these emotions swirling through her head, just like you, and she didn’t know what to do with them, so she said something she didn’t mean.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Who even knows? No one. I tried so many times to understand her, but she always pushed me away. And my father? He refused to talk about her.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, balling my fist. “She’s dead now. Gone. And they’re all talking and eating like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”
“They don’t understand,” the girl says, looking at the crowd. “But I do.” She looks back up at me, that same sparkle in her eyes that she had when she first laid eyes on me. “You’re not alone.”
I turn away, rolling my sleeves up, and growl, “I am.”
Her eyes flicker down to my arms, pupils dilating, and it dawns on me what she’s looking at. The bruises. Shit. How did I forget so quickly? I cover them up again even though I know it’s too late.
She grabs my arm. “Who did that?”
I don’t answer.