Eraser
Mind Holocaust
I stared at the blank page. I couldn't believe it. I gently pressed my finger tips against the corner of the page and lifted it up. I peeked at the other side and quickly shut the book. I was laying on my stomach because it was hurting before I starting eyeing that mysterious book. I kneeled on the bed and peered out the window. It was cold and gray...and wet. While thinking about that, the hairs on my neck stood perpendicular to my skin and goosebumps rose on my arms. My mother died on a day like this. That day slowly started to replay in front of my eyes.
I was a little boy, being embraced by my mother's warm arms. The weather was blue, but I wanted to go outside, so she did as I asked. The only thing I remember after leaving home was hearing my mother's voice, pleading in horror. "Please, don't! At least let my son go. Please, have mercy!". After that, the gunshot came, and then footsteps, desperate to escape. I lied there, on the hard solid ground. My head bleeding from the impact of falling from tender, motherly arms, to the cold, hard earth. I was crying and I couldn't see, the tears and the fog combined, leaving me with nothing to see but a blury vision of my mother, wounded in the chest. I placed my fingers on the hole I saw, not knowing she was dead. I hugged her tightly waited for her to hug me back. But she didn't. That was when I realized: My mother was dead. I clutched her tightly and waited. I waited seconds, minutes, and hours, till a man came over, running. He looked friendly, looked manly, he looked fatherly, he looked warm, he looked worried, he looked like my father. "Poppa." Was all I managed to say. My little finger pointed to the corpse. My father looked at me in pain and fear. He quickly picked me up and carried me back home. As we grew distant from my mother, I looked at her once more... and waved.
My reflection was pale. I was as white as a ghost. Maybe I was one. I pressed my hands to the sides of my face. My hands and face were cold. I turned on the heating in my room and waved my hands i front of it. A few moments later my room was warmer. I looked out the window again. I tried not to focus on the raindrops, but that was all I could see. They looked like tears, like if the angels were crying. I turned and grabbed the book that I violently shut before. I stared at it,and I felt my eyes widen. I lifted my hand and slowly caressed the cover of the diary and I felt the smooth velvet following the direction of my fingers. My Diary was the title of this precious journal. I gazed at the cover and smiled as I saw the part I liked the most of the book. M.C.. Those were my mother's initials: Marie Clay. I opened the book once more and read the first and last entry my mother ever wrote:
Dear Diary,
My life has been a dream. I am living a cozy life with my one-and-only, Felix. The other day, Felix and I were talking about out our honey-moon, and my baby asked about it too. He's so sweet. I can't wait to see him as a grown up boy. I hope he'll be smart, handsome, kind, generous, romantic and everything a woman can ask for in a man. I wish I could know if we're teaching him well. Angelo has grown so much. He's enormous! I just want to hug him all day long. He looks so cuddly. I really love him and I hope he grows up knowing that.
Love,
Marie.
I froze in place and re-read the phrase over and over again. I want to hug him all day long. My eyes filled with tears and I slowly whispered "I also want to hug you all day mom. I also do.". A tear escaped my eye and landed on my mom's I really love him. I quickly tried drying it with my sleeve, but instead of finding it clearly written, I couldn't identify a single letter. I was devastated. I just erased the written proof of my mother's love for me. I thought. I lied down on my stomach again as the pain returned. It wasn't a regular stomach ache. I missed mom, she was there for me. She accepted me. My father doesn't care much about me. Or at least that's what it seems. He goes missing for days and I'm here alone for the long, dark nights he expects me to handle by myself. Just because I'm 15 doesn't mean I'm still old enough to take care of myself alone. I wish mum was still here, here with me. I gently laid my hand on my chest. I felt my heart pumping rapidly. My fingers pressed harder, like if I wanted to slip the bullet out of my mother's chest.
I stood up slowly and headed to the mirror, hanging on the tan walls of my father's hallway. I looked at myself, seeing nothing but a murderer in front of my green, wet eyes. It's my fault. Those words kept echoing in my head. I couldn't stand it anymore. I couldn't stand feeling guilty for my mother's death. I slammed my fist against the mirror. It shattered to pieces, and a stream of blood wrapped the silver frame. I didn't lift my fist to take to see if that blood belonged to my hand. I just stood there, leaning against the cracked, bloody and broken mirror.
I finally decided to move. I stood firmly on my foot and faced the shattered glass. My fingers traced all over the pieces as my tears landed perfectly on the larger pieces. It looked like a movie. I wish. I wish it were, but it wasn't. It was real life, I actually broke the mirror and my blood was traveling its way onto the wooden floor. I ran to get a broom but to do that, I had to pass in front of my father. I peeked around the corner, where my father was lounging on his favorite blue arm chair. I calmly walked past him, without looking just in case.
After I got to the other side of the room without disturbing my father. I checked once more to see what was happening. Of course, he was watching the football game. Dang, I'm missing it! I watched how he was captured inside the T.V., how he was hypnotized by an image. I laughed a bit at the though and covered my mouth quickly. My father didn't even budge. He just said "Angelo boy, bring me a beer, will ya'?". I stared at him. How could he ask a 15-year-old kid to bring him beer? I mean, the average teenager would just think that they're dad is "cool" because he asks them for a beer, but I just thought it was cruel. Like if parent were exploiting their child.
I kept walking and into the kitchen I went. Beer? No, the broom! That was the moment were I just stood there, not knowing what to do. I waited a while and then I felt something warm on my thigh. I looked and realized it was the blood dripping from my hand. I turned around and saw the whole trail of blood I left on my journey to the kitchen. I opened the faucet and put my hand under the running water. At first I hesitated, but I decided it would be better if I washed the blood off instead of leaving it to drip on the plates we would be eating off for dinner. I grabbed the white kitchen towel and wrapped it around my hand. For a minute I was calm but then I realized: The trail of blood I made is still there.
I grabbed the mop with my hands and cleaned what was in the kitchen. As I started cleaning, I started feeling the pain the mirror inflicted on me and I realized I forgot about my mother. The mop fell loose from my hands and hit the floor. But it wasn't the only thing that hit the floor, my jaw did too. I was surprised that I managed to forget about mom for a while. That was good and bad. Good because I was moving on and bad because it felt like I was forgetting about her. It happened 11 years ago and I was living in a permanent guilt still at the age of 15!
I went behind my trail, cleaning the blood I dripped and dropped. Soon enough I reached the part of the trail that crossed in front of my father. I decided to go as last time, no looking and going calm. When I was half way there, my father spoke up. "Son, what are you doing with the mop?". I started thinking of answer, but it had to be quick. "I want to clean my room, dad." I answered. I'm generally a good liar so I was sure he believed me. "Angelo, why do you want to clean up your room? Why?" He replied in disbelief. I stared at him and then decided to ignore him. I kept cleaning and then I heard footsteps, desperate to escape. Desperate to escape... The footsteps had the same sound, the same rhythm as those infernal ones that had been echoing in my head for years. I wondered if it could have been him. I decided to ignore the thought and kept cleaning the blood. As I reached the shattered glass, I remembered why I had done that. The pain, it was to deep to handle. I still felt the pain, even though it was 11 years after.
I was a little boy, being embraced by my mother's warm arms. The weather was blue, but I wanted to go outside, so she did as I asked. The only thing I remember after leaving home was hearing my mother's voice, pleading in horror. "Please, don't! At least let my son go. Please, have mercy!". After that, the gunshot came, and then footsteps, desperate to escape. I lied there, on the hard solid ground. My head bleeding from the impact of falling from tender, motherly arms, to the cold, hard earth. I was crying and I couldn't see, the tears and the fog combined, leaving me with nothing to see but a blury vision of my mother, wounded in the chest. I placed my fingers on the hole I saw, not knowing she was dead. I hugged her tightly waited for her to hug me back. But she didn't. That was when I realized: My mother was dead. I clutched her tightly and waited. I waited seconds, minutes, and hours, till a man came over, running. He looked friendly, looked manly, he looked fatherly, he looked warm, he looked worried, he looked like my father. "Poppa." Was all I managed to say. My little finger pointed to the corpse. My father looked at me in pain and fear. He quickly picked me up and carried me back home. As we grew distant from my mother, I looked at her once more... and waved.
My reflection was pale. I was as white as a ghost. Maybe I was one. I pressed my hands to the sides of my face. My hands and face were cold. I turned on the heating in my room and waved my hands i front of it. A few moments later my room was warmer. I looked out the window again. I tried not to focus on the raindrops, but that was all I could see. They looked like tears, like if the angels were crying. I turned and grabbed the book that I violently shut before. I stared at it,and I felt my eyes widen. I lifted my hand and slowly caressed the cover of the diary and I felt the smooth velvet following the direction of my fingers. My Diary was the title of this precious journal. I gazed at the cover and smiled as I saw the part I liked the most of the book. M.C.. Those were my mother's initials: Marie Clay. I opened the book once more and read the first and last entry my mother ever wrote:
Dear Diary,
My life has been a dream. I am living a cozy life with my one-and-only, Felix. The other day, Felix and I were talking about out our honey-moon, and my baby asked about it too. He's so sweet. I can't wait to see him as a grown up boy. I hope he'll be smart, handsome, kind, generous, romantic and everything a woman can ask for in a man. I wish I could know if we're teaching him well. Angelo has grown so much. He's enormous! I just want to hug him all day long. He looks so cuddly. I really love him and I hope he grows up knowing that.
Love,
Marie.
I froze in place and re-read the phrase over and over again. I want to hug him all day long. My eyes filled with tears and I slowly whispered "I also want to hug you all day mom. I also do.". A tear escaped my eye and landed on my mom's I really love him. I quickly tried drying it with my sleeve, but instead of finding it clearly written, I couldn't identify a single letter. I was devastated. I just erased the written proof of my mother's love for me. I thought. I lied down on my stomach again as the pain returned. It wasn't a regular stomach ache. I missed mom, she was there for me. She accepted me. My father doesn't care much about me. Or at least that's what it seems. He goes missing for days and I'm here alone for the long, dark nights he expects me to handle by myself. Just because I'm 15 doesn't mean I'm still old enough to take care of myself alone. I wish mum was still here, here with me. I gently laid my hand on my chest. I felt my heart pumping rapidly. My fingers pressed harder, like if I wanted to slip the bullet out of my mother's chest.
I stood up slowly and headed to the mirror, hanging on the tan walls of my father's hallway. I looked at myself, seeing nothing but a murderer in front of my green, wet eyes. It's my fault. Those words kept echoing in my head. I couldn't stand it anymore. I couldn't stand feeling guilty for my mother's death. I slammed my fist against the mirror. It shattered to pieces, and a stream of blood wrapped the silver frame. I didn't lift my fist to take to see if that blood belonged to my hand. I just stood there, leaning against the cracked, bloody and broken mirror.
I finally decided to move. I stood firmly on my foot and faced the shattered glass. My fingers traced all over the pieces as my tears landed perfectly on the larger pieces. It looked like a movie. I wish. I wish it were, but it wasn't. It was real life, I actually broke the mirror and my blood was traveling its way onto the wooden floor. I ran to get a broom but to do that, I had to pass in front of my father. I peeked around the corner, where my father was lounging on his favorite blue arm chair. I calmly walked past him, without looking just in case.
After I got to the other side of the room without disturbing my father. I checked once more to see what was happening. Of course, he was watching the football game. Dang, I'm missing it! I watched how he was captured inside the T.V., how he was hypnotized by an image. I laughed a bit at the though and covered my mouth quickly. My father didn't even budge. He just said "Angelo boy, bring me a beer, will ya'?". I stared at him. How could he ask a 15-year-old kid to bring him beer? I mean, the average teenager would just think that they're dad is "cool" because he asks them for a beer, but I just thought it was cruel. Like if parent were exploiting their child.
I kept walking and into the kitchen I went. Beer? No, the broom! That was the moment were I just stood there, not knowing what to do. I waited a while and then I felt something warm on my thigh. I looked and realized it was the blood dripping from my hand. I turned around and saw the whole trail of blood I left on my journey to the kitchen. I opened the faucet and put my hand under the running water. At first I hesitated, but I decided it would be better if I washed the blood off instead of leaving it to drip on the plates we would be eating off for dinner. I grabbed the white kitchen towel and wrapped it around my hand. For a minute I was calm but then I realized: The trail of blood I made is still there.
I grabbed the mop with my hands and cleaned what was in the kitchen. As I started cleaning, I started feeling the pain the mirror inflicted on me and I realized I forgot about my mother. The mop fell loose from my hands and hit the floor. But it wasn't the only thing that hit the floor, my jaw did too. I was surprised that I managed to forget about mom for a while. That was good and bad. Good because I was moving on and bad because it felt like I was forgetting about her. It happened 11 years ago and I was living in a permanent guilt still at the age of 15!
I went behind my trail, cleaning the blood I dripped and dropped. Soon enough I reached the part of the trail that crossed in front of my father. I decided to go as last time, no looking and going calm. When I was half way there, my father spoke up. "Son, what are you doing with the mop?". I started thinking of answer, but it had to be quick. "I want to clean my room, dad." I answered. I'm generally a good liar so I was sure he believed me. "Angelo, why do you want to clean up your room? Why?" He replied in disbelief. I stared at him and then decided to ignore him. I kept cleaning and then I heard footsteps, desperate to escape. Desperate to escape... The footsteps had the same sound, the same rhythm as those infernal ones that had been echoing in my head for years. I wondered if it could have been him. I decided to ignore the thought and kept cleaning the blood. As I reached the shattered glass, I remembered why I had done that. The pain, it was to deep to handle. I still felt the pain, even though it was 11 years after.