Our Deathly Love

What do these things have in common? Those things are what envelopes should look like, absolutely nothing like the envelope that lay in front of me.

The envelope that lay before me was a rich, deep blue and the ink that marked the letter was a scarlet red. A flurry of penmanship addressed strictly to be opened by Emelia & Aurora Badica graced its deep blue front. Mail was a rare thing around my house, and even rarer; letters!

The envelope had a tear in the side, as though hastily opened and shoved just as hastily back in. Even stranger was the fact that the letter was on my kitchen table! My mother had a cupboard by our front door that she stored mail or letters in when we did receive them... unless something really good was in the letter, or perhaps even more likely really bad.

'Shit! What if its about Lilly's hair?'

Of course, that thought was quickly demolished. The school would never be able to send a letter out this soon. Plus, it wasn't the vice principal's third grade penmanship. And, let's face it; he's as dumb as a sack of bricks. He would never be able to prove it was me who washed all of the locker room soap down the drain and replaced it with nair! The guy can hardly tie his shoes for heaven's sake! No way would he be able to prove it was me. He knows that I did it, but without proof, all he can do is help those girls straighten their wigs! Which left me with one question still unanswered; what was it!?

I peered out the back window quickly to see my mother's small body pruning and weeding her garden. Her dark curly long brown hair was pulled up in a bandana; her dark brown eyes set determined on those pesky herb-killing weeds. She seemed busy, too busy to talk, too busy to be disturbed, too busy to really care.

I wrapped my finger around one of my dark brown curls, pondering the thought of how wise it would be to disturb her from her garden. If there was only one thing I have learned from my mother, it would be that gardening helps block out things. If you work hard enough, that is. At times, it's a good way to keep the hands working and the mind thinking.

My mother was easy to upset these days, and it seems like the garden is her only reprieve since my father died.

I still remember small parts of that day. I was only five years old, but I remember the ring-ring-ring of the phone. It ringed 13 times; the unlucky number, before my mother picked it up. I remember my mother's smile slowly but surely fall as the blow of the news hit her. My father's brakes had given out; he had gone off the side of the Carpathian Mountains. Needless to say, it was a closed casket.

The days following the funeral, my aunt moved in with us. Our small house had only two bedrooms so I was moved to the couch. I did not like my aunt; I still don't. A lot can be said about how a woman makes her pb&j's or the shiftiness of her eyes which seemed to follow me around. I hardly saw my mother more then her frequent trips to the bathroom. Which were once every three hours and thirty-seven minutes. There's plenty of time for waiting when you have no friends.

It took my mother over two months to start getting back into the swing of things, though things never went back to exactly the way they were. My mother slowly went back to obsessing over her garden. I do not blame her though. That was her job, which was all she ever knew. She was the local healer, the best in all of Romania, if you ask me.

She would have been much better known if it wasn't for dad. Sometimes I think I hate him, for dying on us; for leaving us with the loudmouth, superstitious villagers; leaving me as the scapegoat.



I try not to tell my mother the things they say. I don't know if she could handle it. She would not be able to handle the fact that people cross themselves and the street when I'm around; just so they can be far away from me. The girls at school giggle and spread rumors about me and don't allow people to be my friend. They say I will curse them. What's even worse, is what their parents say.

They whisper, smirk, and say that I killed my father, that it's my fault he is dead; that I'm evil, that I should have died, that I should have never been born. So in the end here I am, eleven years after my father’s death; friendless, fatherless, and lifeless.

With all of these things out in the open I know it's better not to disturb her, so instead I take the hard deep blue envelope and pull the white letter from its dry, scratchy bowels and read.



I stared blankly at the letter and even more blankly at the signature in the parental slot. My mother's curly brisk penmanship slashed across the slot seemed careless, harsh and horrid. She had signed. It might as well have been my death certificate!

Blind rage ran through me. I could feel the tingling coursing through my body as I slammed my fist with the letter on the table. Pain erupted in my hand but I paid no attention to the throbbing and stomped as loudly as I could muster to my room where; in a fury, I slammed my door so hard that a multiple of pandas from my collection went flying from their starch white shelves on my bright teal wall to my plush white carpet.

Hot, salty, coarse tears streamed down my face as I stormed over to my iPod speakers. I kicked random pandas as I went. I watched angrily as their spotted bodies hit the wall in disarray. I turned the dial all the way up and Flyleaf's chaotic music filled the room and the house.

I plopped angrily on my bed, shoved my head into my pillow and cried. My own mother was sending me away!

I mean, I know I'm not perfect, but neither is she, for heavens sake! I would be eaten alive at that school, literally!

I hate this town and all the people who live in it but I'd much rather stay here then become dinner for some hungry vampires again! I shivered at the thought of my last encounter with the monsters, the leaches. The Vampires.