Thin
Funerals.
Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter.
Standing under the heavy leaves of the tree you are sheltering under, you can hear rain attacking the ground of the pathway behind you, and you wonder if the battle for life will ever end. The beat of gravel footsteps approaching sound with the beating of your almost-broken heart, with the rain.
Pitter, patter. Boom, boom. Crunch, crunch.
A shaky hand comes to rest on your right shoulder, the fingers moulding around the stiff blade that will soon slice through your skin. You wonder, once more, if it will ever end, the pure heartache of it all. The hand continues to shake, and you feel your insides churning from the tiny movements that course through your body, slopping from side to side, rising and falling in your throat. You are released from those shaky fingers as you crouch down over the frozen petals of daisies and let your insides slip from your mouth. You begin to choke, and there is comfort in the sound of your own grief.
Pitter, patter. Boom, boom. Pitter, patter. Sob, sob.
You stand up, your own hands now trembling, and turn towards your mother, who wipes away the tell-tale signs of sickness from your burning lips, and you cry in harmony with her. Her sobs pierce through your ears, low and disbelieving, yours high and horrified.
You know she blames you for this.
You turn away from the woman who raised you in another world, and the reason for your tears change. They attack you, very much like the rain, stabbing at your dry, endangered heart.
You were meant to protect her.
Your vision blackens. You feel your knees weaken. You are beyond caring about your outermost self, stained with emotion and mud. You can only imagine how difficult it will be to stop your innermost self staining, a black mark from the consequences of your actions taking over your soul slowly and steadily, becoming larger with each promise you break. But this time, you didn’t just break a promise.
You broke someone you knew.
Your head spins, your eyelids droop. As you fall back into the gutter from which you came from, you daydream of her, conjure her face for what you wish could be the last time. Her innocence always caused you pain.
You long to touch her, to stroke her cheek, to let her know that you’re truly, truly sorry, one more time.
But when you start, it is your mother you are reaching out to.
It takes her three attempts before she manages to pull you up off the ground. Soon, you are hysterical – at least when you were unconscious, you did not have to show your emotions – something you are paying for now. Under normal circumstances, portraying your emotions was forbidden. Today, however, today was an exception. Today was a day of grief for all.
She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.
“SHE’S DEAD!”
Your sudden outburst terrifies your mother, who sways on her feet. She looks old and weak now – funny, you mused, how fear could do that to people. She crosses her arms over her head, expecting the blows that rain down on her. Seeing her so weak, pleading for you to stop, like a coward would, makes you even stronger. You use this new energy to wrestle her to the ground, slap her, kick her. You grab the lapels of her coat and shake her until she is too stunned to do anything but stare at you. You shake her until your own fury softens slightly. Now, you stare, as she closes her eyes with the patience of a mother, and waits for you to calm. It is this trait that makes you want to strike her again. She wanted to be a mother. It was her dream.
And you took that away from her.
Your uncle, who had been several yards away before your fury overpowered you, tears you away from your mother. You gasp and scream and kick, feeling as foolish and as angry as a child. He pins your hands to your side, and you can feel his muscles rippling, close to giving in. Even though he is weak, you are weaker. You cannot fight your way out of his grasp.
Weaker.
You couldn’t protect her.
You’re weak.
Knowing that you have succumbed to guilt, your uncle releases you. He leaves you under the tree, whose branches droop with leaves, crying over the graves of the forgotten, mournful in its own way. He jogs to the funeral parlour, where others attending the funeral party have taken your mother.
The guilt takes you towards the freshest mound, over which a rain-spattered headstone looms. The headstone that you paid for. Underneath the earth, the coffin that you bought to carry the corpse of someone so close to you, it brought tears to your eyes when choosing it.
It wasn’t meant to be this way. It was meant to be you that was six feet under, smug in your own little box with nails in, to stop you from emerging into the world you had ruined again.
So weak…
You sink to your knees and wrap your arms around the hard, rectangular stone. The corners cut into your upper arms. There would be physical bruises to show for this trauma after all.
You choke on your own apologies, aimed towards the sky. She’d surely be in Heaven by now.
Pitter, patter. Boom, boom. Boom, boom. Boom, boom.
You wished that you could open up your chest and let the rain wash your heart away. You didn’t deserve one.
From a distance, you could hear the dull shouts of the paparazzi, determined to rake in your heartache. You had enough to spare.
You killed your own sister with your disease, after all.
Standing under the heavy leaves of the tree you are sheltering under, you can hear rain attacking the ground of the pathway behind you, and you wonder if the battle for life will ever end. The beat of gravel footsteps approaching sound with the beating of your almost-broken heart, with the rain.
Pitter, patter. Boom, boom. Crunch, crunch.
A shaky hand comes to rest on your right shoulder, the fingers moulding around the stiff blade that will soon slice through your skin. You wonder, once more, if it will ever end, the pure heartache of it all. The hand continues to shake, and you feel your insides churning from the tiny movements that course through your body, slopping from side to side, rising and falling in your throat. You are released from those shaky fingers as you crouch down over the frozen petals of daisies and let your insides slip from your mouth. You begin to choke, and there is comfort in the sound of your own grief.
Pitter, patter. Boom, boom. Pitter, patter. Sob, sob.
You stand up, your own hands now trembling, and turn towards your mother, who wipes away the tell-tale signs of sickness from your burning lips, and you cry in harmony with her. Her sobs pierce through your ears, low and disbelieving, yours high and horrified.
You know she blames you for this.
You turn away from the woman who raised you in another world, and the reason for your tears change. They attack you, very much like the rain, stabbing at your dry, endangered heart.
You were meant to protect her.
Your vision blackens. You feel your knees weaken. You are beyond caring about your outermost self, stained with emotion and mud. You can only imagine how difficult it will be to stop your innermost self staining, a black mark from the consequences of your actions taking over your soul slowly and steadily, becoming larger with each promise you break. But this time, you didn’t just break a promise.
You broke someone you knew.
Your head spins, your eyelids droop. As you fall back into the gutter from which you came from, you daydream of her, conjure her face for what you wish could be the last time. Her innocence always caused you pain.
You long to touch her, to stroke her cheek, to let her know that you’re truly, truly sorry, one more time.
But when you start, it is your mother you are reaching out to.
It takes her three attempts before she manages to pull you up off the ground. Soon, you are hysterical – at least when you were unconscious, you did not have to show your emotions – something you are paying for now. Under normal circumstances, portraying your emotions was forbidden. Today, however, today was an exception. Today was a day of grief for all.
She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.
“SHE’S DEAD!”
Your sudden outburst terrifies your mother, who sways on her feet. She looks old and weak now – funny, you mused, how fear could do that to people. She crosses her arms over her head, expecting the blows that rain down on her. Seeing her so weak, pleading for you to stop, like a coward would, makes you even stronger. You use this new energy to wrestle her to the ground, slap her, kick her. You grab the lapels of her coat and shake her until she is too stunned to do anything but stare at you. You shake her until your own fury softens slightly. Now, you stare, as she closes her eyes with the patience of a mother, and waits for you to calm. It is this trait that makes you want to strike her again. She wanted to be a mother. It was her dream.
And you took that away from her.
Your uncle, who had been several yards away before your fury overpowered you, tears you away from your mother. You gasp and scream and kick, feeling as foolish and as angry as a child. He pins your hands to your side, and you can feel his muscles rippling, close to giving in. Even though he is weak, you are weaker. You cannot fight your way out of his grasp.
Weaker.
You couldn’t protect her.
You’re weak.
Knowing that you have succumbed to guilt, your uncle releases you. He leaves you under the tree, whose branches droop with leaves, crying over the graves of the forgotten, mournful in its own way. He jogs to the funeral parlour, where others attending the funeral party have taken your mother.
The guilt takes you towards the freshest mound, over which a rain-spattered headstone looms. The headstone that you paid for. Underneath the earth, the coffin that you bought to carry the corpse of someone so close to you, it brought tears to your eyes when choosing it.
It wasn’t meant to be this way. It was meant to be you that was six feet under, smug in your own little box with nails in, to stop you from emerging into the world you had ruined again.
So weak…
You sink to your knees and wrap your arms around the hard, rectangular stone. The corners cut into your upper arms. There would be physical bruises to show for this trauma after all.
You choke on your own apologies, aimed towards the sky. She’d surely be in Heaven by now.
Pitter, patter. Boom, boom. Boom, boom. Boom, boom.
You wished that you could open up your chest and let the rain wash your heart away. You didn’t deserve one.
From a distance, you could hear the dull shouts of the paparazzi, determined to rake in your heartache. You had enough to spare.
You killed your own sister with your disease, after all.