The day my mother died was odd.

Odd, in the sense, that she would never come back.





I lay sprawled on my bed; thinking of this. How my brother and my father managed, I can not fathom. It was heartbreaking. No it was more of the ache of my heart. The part that longed for her motherly touch. Her hand patting my light brown hair.

I watched as the sun rose, and then set.

I thought about her death.

Thought about how someone planned it out.

Though about how they murdered her.

In a way I shall not bring to think about.

Too late.


My name is- or was, however you want to think about it- Kat. Well, I was christened Kathleen, but before my mother died, I got that nickname from her.

Now, I keep it.

Keep it as a souvenir.

A sorrow souvenir.

I wouldn't let go of it.

I needed it to feel the pain.

To feel something.

To feel.

Anything at all.


Eventually, I stopped watching the rainbows of colors that spread across my shiny pine desk, and sat up, and walked.

I walked down a set of stairs, and saw my brother and father talking.

They were talking of me. Their problem sister to my brother, and problem daughter to my father. I knew this, because as soon as I came into the room, they let silence engulf them.

"Morning sunshine", my father joked.

"Stop looking so depressed!", my brother said, "I mean, it's not like Mom died seven times over!"

"Don't go all emo on me!"

I could not fathom this. There are hundreds of thousands of words in the English language, and yet I couldn't find one that described this feeling. This feeling of betrayal. How he brought it up so jokingly, his green eyes shining with what he thought of as humor, and his black hair falling down, covering parts of his eyes.

I couldn't stand this sickly feeling.

"What is there to be happy for?", I retorted.

At this, my brother's smile wavered, but he came to after a moment.

"I mean, you don't live in a box. You have a roof over your head for God's sake! Why are you being so ungrateful?", he asked, as though he were surprised or angry. He shouldn't be. He was dodging the question, not fully answering.

I mean, as he had said, people have no houses.

People wake up with cancer.

People lose loved ones.

I walked out the door, without so much as a good-bye.


My feet knew where to take me, so I let my mind wander from the present.

Soon, my feet stopped in front of a meadow. I had walked through the woods, and stopped there.

It was an odd meadow, and the air felt as though it too knew the sorrow of the world.

It was odd, as many people would say in this sleepy town of Fox Lane, because it seemed to change.

It went from being warm, and glimmering, mixing with the shadows, and other lively colors, to just stopping.

By stopping, I mean, it seemed as though a line at been brought down, and the warmness stopped, and if one were to cross the line, into the bare field, that leads to a cliff, one would feel the air drop several degrees.

I sat down, and rested my head on my knees, letting the warmth tingle onto my arms.

Letting it take over for me.

Floating in the breeze.

All one.


I thought it had only taken me a minute to get here, but I was wrong.

I had left in the morning, and the sun was now making it's way down to earth.


The sun went on.

Even though many people's lives won't.

Never will.

I glared at the sun.

It was darker than it should have been.

So dark.

So red.

Like blood.


I must have dozed away, because when I had awoken, it was morning again.

I knew my brother and father wouldn't worry. I mean, I did this often. I had to get away from the house that haunts me.


Before my mother had died, I would do art.

Make art with her.


Before she died, I was working on a portrait of her. It was colorful, and looked so realistic, my brother asked my if I was taking a photograph.

After she died, I tore up the painting, and threw the pieces in a fire, vowing to never touch a pencil for art again.

My father locked himself in his room, and cursed. He cursed at me. He cursed at mother for leaving us.

But he never cried.

I would know, because that's all I did.

Other than waiting.


And waiting.

Waiting for an end to come.

Waiting for something.

Waiting for anything at all.

You see, it was all my fathers fault.

He liked to gamble.

He owed money to a man, who he didn't know was a criminal.

The man grew mad, and killed my mother, instead of my father, like he pleaded.

The meadow helped me forget.

Forget this.

Forget that.

Forget my own life.


I swayed in the breeze, waiting.




The sun rose, and it set.

It set, and it rose again.

I felt no hunger.

No need for anything.



All that was there was me, the meadow engulfing me, and the blood sunrise.

There was nothing but me, the meadow.

Me, and the sun.

Nothing else.

Nothing else at all.


No, I wasn't trying to die or anything, not like I was giving up on life. It was different.

It was acceptance.

Accepting that life wouldn't be the same.

Accepting that death finds everyone.

Accepting that it happened, and that you can't do anything to change it.

Accepting it.

Accepting the mocking blood sunrise.


All this had to come with a price.

I should have known.

Pain came back.

Washing over me.

Killing me inside.

It all came back.


I had to keep track.

I tried to at least.

Until a year passed.

And Mother's death came.

I felt like I was dying.

My throat was dry.

My mouth was like sandpaper.

March 11, 2021 20:53

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