Death, Blood and Prayers
Death, blood and prayers
Death, blood and prayers
’The days had gone faster than I had thought they ever would. I had come to the convent in my father’s wishes in September and it was already January. It had been a rainy day when he had driven me to the convent. We didn’t speak on the way there, and it was a long drive, but when we had gotten there he had stopped the car a little way from the door, where a nun was awaiting me. He had looked at me and said:
“Dearest daughter I know this displeases you, but this is the best for you.” He had looked at me with sad eyes. No tears, just sad eyes. I didn’t say anything but I just moved to open the car door when he took my wrist.
“I’ll come and get you from here as soon as I can” he had said to me, and yet the months had passed. I was 13 when he left me here. He didn’t write to me, nor call me. The first week I was there I had asked one of the nuns if they had I phone. I wanted to call my father at his house. But they had said that this was a convent and not a telephone company. I had returned to my empty room and cried my eyes out for a few hours before finally falling asleep. The weeks passed and I waited for a note, a letter or something to tell that my father still remembered me, but nothing had happened at all. And only a few days ago, I was sitting at my desk with a letter of great sadness. It was a letter from my mother. She wrote to me, finally, saying that she missed me and that she wanted to come and get me from the convent, but wasn’t able to. That wasn’t the saddest part of it at all it made me shred a tear, but not as much as the next part:
My darling, I have bad news to tell you, and I’m not at all fond of it. But your father has passed away a few days ago. He had been suffering from blood loss for a long period of time and no transfusion of blood had been able to save him from his death. He’s to be buried on Tuesday. And I want you to be there.
I’m sending a cap to get you away from the convent and bring you home.
I had read the short letter through a few times after I had no my tears to shred over my dead father. I’d thought about packing, but didn’t do anything about it. Not more than a few hours after I had read my mother’s letter the cap had arrived and one of the nuns came and knocked on the door. She had said that the cap was waiting and that I had to hurry outside. I did so, forgetting the letter on the desk, and all of my other few belongings. I ran out to the cap and got in. The drive hadn’t taken more than half an hour. The cap stopped in front of our house and I got out and ran up the stairs and almost ran into the locked door. I knocked on the door and then waited. A few minutes passed before my mother came and opened the door. She looked as if she had been crying. Her mascara was running down her cheeks. I looked up at her and said nothing. I had smiled, it was sad, but it was a smile. She had tried to smile but had a hard time doing so. She let me in, but none of us had said anything. She walked into the living room, and I, to my own room. I hadn’t seen it in a few months, but nothing had changed. I sat down on my bed and looked around. Really nothing had changed in there. I don’t really remember more from that day, so I guess I must have fallen asleep there. I actually don’t remember much until the funeral.
’The days had gone faster than I had thought they ever would. I had come to the convent in my father’s wishes in September and it was already January. It had been a rainy day when he had driven me to the convent. We didn’t speak on the way there, and it was a long drive, but when we had gotten there he had stopped the car a little way from the door, where a nun was awaiting me. He had looked at me and said:
“Dearest daughter I know this displeases you, but this is the best for you.” He had looked at me with sad eyes. No tears, just sad eyes. I didn’t say anything but I just moved to open the car door when he took my wrist.
“I’ll come and get you from here as soon as I can” he had said to me, and yet the months had passed. I was 13 when he left me here. He didn’t write to me, nor call me. The first week I was there I had asked one of the nuns if they had I phone. I wanted to call my father at his house. But they had said that this was a convent and not a telephone company. I had returned to my empty room and cried my eyes out for a few hours before finally falling asleep. The weeks passed and I waited for a note, a letter or something to tell that my father still remembered me, but nothing had happened at all. And only a few days ago, I was sitting at my desk with a letter of great sadness. It was a letter from my mother. She wrote to me, finally, saying that she missed me and that she wanted to come and get me from the convent, but wasn’t able to. That wasn’t the saddest part of it at all it made me shred a tear, but not as much as the next part:
My darling, I have bad news to tell you, and I’m not at all fond of it. But your father has passed away a few days ago. He had been suffering from blood loss for a long period of time and no transfusion of blood had been able to save him from his death. He’s to be buried on Tuesday. And I want you to be there.
I’m sending a cap to get you away from the convent and bring you home.
I had read the short letter through a few times after I had no my tears to shred over my dead father. I’d thought about packing, but didn’t do anything about it. Not more than a few hours after I had read my mother’s letter the cap had arrived and one of the nuns came and knocked on the door. She had said that the cap was waiting and that I had to hurry outside. I did so, forgetting the letter on the desk, and all of my other few belongings. I ran out to the cap and got in. The drive hadn’t taken more than half an hour. The cap stopped in front of our house and I got out and ran up the stairs and almost ran into the locked door. I knocked on the door and then waited. A few minutes passed before my mother came and opened the door. She looked as if she had been crying. Her mascara was running down her cheeks. I looked up at her and said nothing. I had smiled, it was sad, but it was a smile. She had tried to smile but had a hard time doing so. She let me in, but none of us had said anything. She walked into the living room, and I, to my own room. I hadn’t seen it in a few months, but nothing had changed. I sat down on my bed and looked around. Really nothing had changed in there. I don’t really remember more from that day, so I guess I must have fallen asleep there. I actually don’t remember much until the funeral.