Finally

TRIGGER WARNING AND SUICIDAL CONTENT.

It had been twenty-four yours since she had last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Well, maybe not twenty four, but a good two decades. Alright, only one decade. But only on the outside were the similarities.

↦↤ 

I gasp and clutch at my chest. Memories hit, rushing at me with amazing speed. Momma reading to the kids as they gathered around our front porch, making a heavenly bubble of lies around those children that knew nothing about what was going on. I was one of those children. She would read tales of dashing heroes, charming lasses, brave adventurers, things she told us we could all be. But she always reminded us that there is more than meets the eye. There is always a white to the black, and red to the blue, water for the fire. There is a layer of lies covering a bed of truth. A sprinkle of snow on a freshly mowed lawn.

She taught the kids how to read and write, taught us how to live in a big wide world when you're the little Red Riding Hood, how to thrive if you're the robbed rich of Robin Hood. Even after we were brought to this wretched place of death and lies. The workers collapsing every other day, dropping like flies in their little graveyard. Except we didn't have graveyards. Only burnings.

Only days later, Momma disappeared. She was a pleasantly plump woman, and the Sentinels just couldn’t bother to have her around, all the while keeping her alive. She was a burden, and also “useless”, sitting in her wheelchair and coughing the dust and dirt out of her lungs.

Papa did love us, he just didn't have time for us in the middle of his "experiment", and was always "too busy". He gave the sentence order for her death, signed it with his own hand. He could've prevented it by just a shake of his head, but he chose not to. Papa didn't look at me after Momma's death. Or at anyone. He holed himself up in his room, as if her were even the slightest bit sorry. Two decades and a half years after having it up to my head and scurrying out of that hell-hole, I'm back where I started.

I run to the street I used to live in and break into the living quarters, which collapses with a gentle brush of the hand. Everything smells like humidity and rusted metal as I gently dance my way through the fragile compartment. I reach my room and tears rise to my eyes as I see what little is left of the place I once called home.

My posters have all tumbled and lie wasted on the floor, which is layered with years of grime. The walls are covered in stains and cracks, and make me gag as I try to approach them. My old cot has mould on it and my clothes are ripped across the ground and I remember the last time I was here was Momma's burning. The floorboards share the same fate as the walls as I hold my breath and break one of the cracks open, reaching in for a tin, then airly sprinting through the prison I had become so accustomed to.

I open the tin that is as big as my head and take out my most possessions, which somehow survived whatever happened here. The stories I wrote as a child, the necklace Momma gave me, and a few coins and shells. Then I find what I came back for. Her ashes. I promised myself I would keep her, but I need to let her go. I sigh as I get in the car and slam the door. A shiver runs its cold, slimy finger down my back and whispers in my ear.

It was a hot day, and the flames caught quickly. She bargained with the guards, trying to lure them away from me. She struck one of them. They caught her arms. Knocked her out, humiliated her, enclosed her in a prison of wood and set a match. She screamed almost in the same pitch as me. I wanted to look away. I swear I did. But I couldn't look away from a train wreck.

Papa snarled at me and told the guards to throw me in the ashes. They obeyed. The still lingering fire and hot ashes scorched and licked at my back and neck, hinting at my face, wanting more. "Useless wench". That's what he called me. I would love to say I didn't cry, but I can't. I sobbed and wailed as I rolled in the sand to take the pain away, but the salt water from the beach reached my raw skin.

The memories. I convulse in my seat and clutch at my steering wheel, thanking the flowers I didn't start the car. I shake as I clutch the steering wheel, focusing instead on the scars at my wrists. I glare at my bracelets and take deep breaths to unknot my stomach. I unbraid my hair, then shake it loose to my belly button, giving my hands something to do. I shake my head and gently massage my neck, running through my exercises. The second I'm feeling alright, I put my hair in a ponytail and clean my glasses, wiping the sweat and tears from my face. Before thinking it through, I drive to the surprisingly empty beach and sit on the rocks in the corner. Everyone feels relaxed and happy, taking the day off. I think of my own situation, then cringe.

I hold the tin in my lap and whisper softly.

"Momma, you gave me a reason to leave, and I think it's high time I returned that favour by giving you what you wish. To see the world, Momma, tell me all about it. Tell me about all the buildings and skyscrapers, the deserts and people, about everything there is to see. Or go find someone who is there and ready to give you the life you deserve. Bye Momma."

I remember her sweet honey-colored skin, her chocolate eyes and curly hair. How her eyes were still flashing as they shone through the fire the last moments. I open the tin and watch the ashes swirl and dance, float and prance, fluttering into the foamy blue-green sea, sparkling like gold in the sun. For a second, I think I hear Momma's laugh. She would be proud of me for letting go of those memories, of her. And that's all that matters.