Killing Jar

Ryan was just finishing up telling me about his parents, and I was preparing myself for what I knew was coming next.

"So what about your parents?" he asked. I took a shaky breath, which was only noticeable by me. Luckily, I already had an answer ready. I've been asked this before. It just always made me nervous, like maybe they could see through my lies.

"Well," I started. "My father runs his own business. I don't see him too often. He's very involved."

I paused for a moment. The next part was hard for me.

"And your mom?" Ryan asked.

"She..She died when I was 13," I said looking down. I hated talking about it.

"Oh, shit," Ryan said. "I'm sorry."

"It's ok," I said. "I just prefer not to talk about it."

"Of course," Ryan said. "Let's talk about something else."

We talked for a bit more before leaving the restaurant we had went to for lunch. I decided to return to my apartment instead of going back to the studio. I told Ryan that I'd try writing something at home.

When I did get home, I wasn't thinking about songs. I was thinking about my parents.

My mother had known that my father was Death. They had met accidentally. My father was on an assignment. My mother caught my father killing her neighbor. She was supposed to be gone that day, but had changed her plans last minute. I know what you're thinking. What kind of woman could love a man who killed for a living? Well my mom was different. She understood that everyone was meant to die. My father was just doing his job. It was tough for them though, not being able to touch. Well, except between the hours of 12 AM and 1 AM, which explain how I was even created.

I didn't always have my father's abilities. I didn't get them until I was 13, though no one expected that I would get them.

I remember, on my 13th birthday, I had woken up sometime after 12 AM. I could hear crying. I went out into our living room to find my mother sitting on our couch crying.

I had asked my mother what was wrong. She said that nothing was wrong. It was adult things. I remember feeling sad. I remember sitting on the couch next to her. I remember wrapping my arms around her, my hand touching the bare flesh of her arm. And I definately remember my mom freezing up. Startled, I had let go of her. Her eyes were open, but the were dim. I couldn't hear her breathing. I remember when my father came in and saw us on the couch. He looked at my mother first, mouth wide open in shock, before his eyes turned to me.

"What did you do Ava?" my father had asked. I had started to cry.

"I don't know," I had said through my cries. "I just hugged her."

My father never hated me for killing my mother. It was an honest mistake. But I hated myself for doing it.

I looked down at my notebook, which I still had in my hands. I opened it up, grabbed the nearest writing utensil and started writing.