Post by Momo on Jul 2, 2009 11:39:31 GMT -5
Just something I typed up, I'm starting to really love writing for Ursula. <3
Word Count: 914
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I have pleasant memories of my childhood, although like an old photograph they’re beginning to blur around the edges. Long, hot summers at the park melt into winters spent making angels in the snow; I had eleven wonderful years and four all too short months with my mother Inali, the woman who was my mirror image. That’s what people said about us, at least, that we looked nearly identical, although in my opinion she was infinitely more beautiful than I could ever hope to be.
I’m sure she’s not pretty anymore. I hate to be morbid, but I’m very well aware how quickly the body decomposes, and it’s been quite a few years since my mother was buried in the thawing earth.
It was April 18th, a brief day of warmth after a particularly cold winter. We had spent the day outside, trying desperately to catch the fluttering white moths so commonly found in the Gardens; I’m going to assume we were unsuccessful. My mother rarely had a whole day off of work, and I was hesitant to go to sleep and wake up to an empty apartment. She was married to the job, you see, and I used to think that she was a sheriff first, a parent second. I know better now, of course; she was just doing what she loved.
Anyway, around one in the morning we woke up to the sound of screaming coming from next door. The neighbors, Josie and Matilda, were known for their loud arguments, but I distinctly remember that this sounded wrong – not like a feuding couple but two creatures fighting for their lives. My mother yelled at me from the hallway to stay in my room and to not even think of leaving; I was still a perfectly obedient child those days, and didn’t dream of leaving my bed. I did, however, peek out the window. I’ve always been curious, even when it would serve me better to avert my gaze.
Well, I looked, and I regret it every moment of my life. I couldn’t make out exactly what was happening, there were so many flashes of pink, yellow, and violet. In a blink of an eye there was crimson blotting out all other colors, and against the shadows I saw three hulking forms, ripping into the neighbors who I had known my whole, short life. Their faces were obscured by the darkness, but the faint beams of moonlight displayed enough to give me nightmares that chase me to this day. I tell my girlfriends sleep is a waste of time, but in reality there’s really nothing more I want more than a full night of uninterrupted rest.
I pulled myself away from the window with enough force to throw me off the bed, and I hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud. The sound of my mother yelling, first in fury and then in pain, made me shake with a depth of fear I didn’t know existed, but I don’t remember ever crying. No, I’m sure the tears came later. For those minutes that stretched on for hours and hours, I was sick with tremors, and the officers who found me hiding under my bed said I had gone into so deep a shock they were afraid there would be no saving me.
I guess I was stronger than anyone – including myself – ever thought, because even though it took countless months, I didn’t completely lose myself. I didn’t die with my mother that night. I’m still alive.
But I hate being here in the Gardens, surrounded by all these memories of her. This used to be my paradise, but it’s all tainted now. Still, I can’t keep myself away; this is the only home I know…although I’m afraid to say I’m as lonely as ever, even her – maybe even more so here than anywhere else, surrounded by all the moths and the neighbors who aren’t Josie and Matilda, as I’m doubly reminded of all I’ll never get back.
Not to be pathetic or anything. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been feeding, clothing, and educating myself since April 18th, after all; foster care doesn’t really get the job done. Esmée tried her best, but I was eleven and way too old to adapt to a new mommy, and I wasn’t as well behaved as I probably should've been. Chalk it up to childhood trauma, or some other similar excuse.
So here I am, standing in front of your simple, tidy grave. There’s a wreath next to it, laced with ugly yellow roses; a stranger puts a new one there every other month but I’ve never figured out who does it, maybe someone she worked with or my other mother. I doubt the latter, but whoever it is, they have bad taste.
I’ve come empty handed, I hope she doesn’t mind; I’ll bring the candle April 18th like I do every year, but today I just needed to see her.
“I miss you, mom. Suits, I miss you so much.”
Was it too much to hope that under those six feet of dirt my mother wasn't just a pile of bones? That she was somewhere else, as hardworking and lovely as my young mind remembered? Maybe death wasn't the end of absolutely everything...
Or it was. Either way I'm still breathing, and I’m going to do my best to enjoy myself until I get to see you again, mom.
Word Count: 914
- - - - -
I have pleasant memories of my childhood, although like an old photograph they’re beginning to blur around the edges. Long, hot summers at the park melt into winters spent making angels in the snow; I had eleven wonderful years and four all too short months with my mother Inali, the woman who was my mirror image. That’s what people said about us, at least, that we looked nearly identical, although in my opinion she was infinitely more beautiful than I could ever hope to be.
I’m sure she’s not pretty anymore. I hate to be morbid, but I’m very well aware how quickly the body decomposes, and it’s been quite a few years since my mother was buried in the thawing earth.
It was April 18th, a brief day of warmth after a particularly cold winter. We had spent the day outside, trying desperately to catch the fluttering white moths so commonly found in the Gardens; I’m going to assume we were unsuccessful. My mother rarely had a whole day off of work, and I was hesitant to go to sleep and wake up to an empty apartment. She was married to the job, you see, and I used to think that she was a sheriff first, a parent second. I know better now, of course; she was just doing what she loved.
Anyway, around one in the morning we woke up to the sound of screaming coming from next door. The neighbors, Josie and Matilda, were known for their loud arguments, but I distinctly remember that this sounded wrong – not like a feuding couple but two creatures fighting for their lives. My mother yelled at me from the hallway to stay in my room and to not even think of leaving; I was still a perfectly obedient child those days, and didn’t dream of leaving my bed. I did, however, peek out the window. I’ve always been curious, even when it would serve me better to avert my gaze.
Well, I looked, and I regret it every moment of my life. I couldn’t make out exactly what was happening, there were so many flashes of pink, yellow, and violet. In a blink of an eye there was crimson blotting out all other colors, and against the shadows I saw three hulking forms, ripping into the neighbors who I had known my whole, short life. Their faces were obscured by the darkness, but the faint beams of moonlight displayed enough to give me nightmares that chase me to this day. I tell my girlfriends sleep is a waste of time, but in reality there’s really nothing more I want more than a full night of uninterrupted rest.
I pulled myself away from the window with enough force to throw me off the bed, and I hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud. The sound of my mother yelling, first in fury and then in pain, made me shake with a depth of fear I didn’t know existed, but I don’t remember ever crying. No, I’m sure the tears came later. For those minutes that stretched on for hours and hours, I was sick with tremors, and the officers who found me hiding under my bed said I had gone into so deep a shock they were afraid there would be no saving me.
I guess I was stronger than anyone – including myself – ever thought, because even though it took countless months, I didn’t completely lose myself. I didn’t die with my mother that night. I’m still alive.
But I hate being here in the Gardens, surrounded by all these memories of her. This used to be my paradise, but it’s all tainted now. Still, I can’t keep myself away; this is the only home I know…although I’m afraid to say I’m as lonely as ever, even her – maybe even more so here than anywhere else, surrounded by all the moths and the neighbors who aren’t Josie and Matilda, as I’m doubly reminded of all I’ll never get back.
Not to be pathetic or anything. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I’ve been feeding, clothing, and educating myself since April 18th, after all; foster care doesn’t really get the job done. Esmée tried her best, but I was eleven and way too old to adapt to a new mommy, and I wasn’t as well behaved as I probably should've been. Chalk it up to childhood trauma, or some other similar excuse.
So here I am, standing in front of your simple, tidy grave. There’s a wreath next to it, laced with ugly yellow roses; a stranger puts a new one there every other month but I’ve never figured out who does it, maybe someone she worked with or my other mother. I doubt the latter, but whoever it is, they have bad taste.
I’ve come empty handed, I hope she doesn’t mind; I’ll bring the candle April 18th like I do every year, but today I just needed to see her.
“I miss you, mom. Suits, I miss you so much.”
Was it too much to hope that under those six feet of dirt my mother wasn't just a pile of bones? That she was somewhere else, as hardworking and lovely as my young mind remembered? Maybe death wasn't the end of absolutely everything...
Or it was. Either way I'm still breathing, and I’m going to do my best to enjoy myself until I get to see you again, mom.
