Life, Love, Death?

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
-Eskimo Proverb

Chapter 1

“They were a loving family, and will be missed by many. Rest in peace, little sister,” my auntie whispered before placing a red rose — my mom's favourite — on top of her snow white coffin.

Next to my mom’s coffin was my father’s, and then my brother’s. Oh God, I miss them so much. I feel like I haven’t eaten or slept since the accident — although I know I have. My body feels so numb. I guess this is what it feels like to loose the ones you care about most! First you get the numbness, then comes along the depression. When will my life be back to normal?

“Freya sweet? It's time to say your goodbyes,” Genevieve — my auntie whispered to me. It sounded like a whisper to me anyway, but I know she was speaking normally. I just couldn’t hear her, or all the other voices, which were saying there goodbyes. The only thing I could hear was the beating of my heart; drumming out all the other noises, making my body feel limp and lifeless. It should be me in that coffin, but before I could end that trail of thought, everything was silent. I knew my family was waiting for me to speak.

Aunt Genevieve, Grandma Amelia, and Grandpa Wilson. Freda and Rebecca. Rosalyn, Jessica, and Flora. Zak and Janson. They were all here, paying there respects to my dead family.

There were more faces in the crowd, but they were mainly faces I didn’t recognise, like Father's work employees, Mom's friends from our second home in England, and, of course, Milo’s friends from college.

I couldn’t look at my family, I couldn’t even bare to stand here, next to the three coffins of the people I loved most. I couldn’t take any of it anymore. When I finally looked at Grandma Amelia I realised what I needed to do; I needed to say my goodbyes. I needed to try and let go.

“Um, I have written a speech,” I spoke, quite quiet but just loud enough for everyone to hear. I was afraid my voice would die on me, or that I’d burst into tears. To be honest though, I don’t think I have any tears left in me; after all, it is what I've been doing since the accident.

“Mom always loved to hear it when I played piano.” I paused to hold back tears, which I hoped wouldn’t appear. “So, if you don’t mind, I wrote a song.”

The room was so quiet that I could practically hear my own tears as they fell down my face.

The piano was at the back of the church, so it meant walking back through the congregation filling the pews of the church. This I could handle. I just couldn’t handle the fact that the tears were now streaming down my face. There was sympathy in almost everyone’s face and I didn’t want it. Why should I? Sympathy wasn't going to bring my family back.

Once I sat down, I immediately started to play. I didn’t need the paper in front of me to know what I was playing. I wrote this song when I was a thirteen. I wrote it especially for my father, when we found out he had cancer. But he didn’t like it as much as mom. I only hope that he appreciates my playing this now. I need him to understand how lost I am. I need his guidance. I need all of their guidance.

Halfway through playing, I looked up at the stained glass window. Light was shining in and lay directly above the piano. It reminded me of the time when Milo said he would always look out for me. "I will always be that ray of sunshine in which you need," he whispered one summer when I was crying about how much I missed him and how I wanted him to come home from college. Now I can’t have him home at all.

I smiled as I came to the end of my song. I realised that the tears were no longer falling, and my body wasn’t lifeless anymore. I had hope. I knew it wasn’t something to go by, but I know that Milo is looking out for me. He’s my angel. He’s the one looking over me. Just like Mom use to say, every night before bed. "Angels are watching over you," she has always said in her loving and caring voice.

“I did want to say a few words which I wrote down, but something new has came to mind.” I wiped away the tears which stayed and took in a deep breath. “A wise woman once said, ‘Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself and know that everything in this life has a purpose,’ and I believe this. My parents and brother, may have di—” I paused, not because I was lost for words, but because I didn’t want to say the word. Soon though, I picked back up. “But, God has a reason. Nothing happens purposely or accidentally, but because of fate. I love you Mom, Dad. Milo.” I stopped because tears were now falling again. “And you will be missed. Not just by me, but by everyone. I will be good and I will try to be strong. I-I-I love you!” I had to go and sit back down because the tears were too much for me to handle.

I felt like lying on my side, all lights out, alone and crying. I needed to be left to think. I needed to know what’s happening. The accident happened a little over a week ago, but I need to get a grip of things.

I need to stay strong. I need to! I have to! It’s important.

“Come, darling. Time to go outside,” Grandma whispered down my ear as she hugged me.

I held back a bitter laugh. ‘Time to go outside.’ It was laughable. In other words, ‘Time to bury your dead family.’

Without saying a word, I walked behind the many men who carried out the three coffins. First out was my father in his white coffin. Then next came my mom, and last was Milo.

Their coffins were identical and stood out from our clothes. It was in my mom and father’s joined Will. My mom wrote in her own hand, 'Please no black clothes at my funeral.' So we decided that my mom's friends and her side of the family should wear dark purple — which was her favourite colour, and we decided that my dad's employees and his side of the family should were blue, as this was his favourite colour.

All of my brother's friends wore different colours; all of them were bright. My brother was a happy person, a colourful person. He didn’t have a favourite colour. He just had a favourite song. Well, I wouldn’t say it was his favourite. I would just say it’s the song he always said he’d want at his funeral. My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion. So, just like we decided not to wear black, we are playing this song as the coffins got lowered into the endless black pit of nothingness.

I told Aunt Genevieve that I wanted to stay here at the cemetery for a few hours. The sun was about to go down and I was still kneeling down on the dirt by all three head stones. I knew I should go home soon, but why? I don’t have a home to go to. Gen was already packing up all of my valuables, and then in four days we would be on a plane to rainy England. My new life.

Why would she think I’d want to move away from Australia? I have memories here. I have my parent's and brother’s bodies here.

My trail of thought finished when it started to rain.

“Great,” I muttered as I lay on my back, letting the rain wash over me. I imagined it was washing out all my fears and struggles for a while. I guess I found the place calming, because I didn’t even realize I fell asleep until I felt someone nudge me.

“Oh, thank God. You're not hurt. Are you okay? I’ve been worried sick.” It was Genevieve. She was panicking, but I couldn’t seem to focus on her.

“Where are we?” I asked whilst rubbing my eyes.

“On the way home,” she calmly replied.

She just brought me home? Why would she do that? I needed to say goodbye. I couldn't just leave them there, alone in the rain — in the earth. I couldn't leave them to simply rot.

“Stop the car,” I said through clenched teeth, hoping she would follow my order. Unfortunately, she didn’t.

“Gen!” I shouted at her, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Please,” I asked in a voice which sounded almost like a plea. “I need to say bye. I-I can't leave them like this.”

Genevieve finally pulled into the nearest lay-by. It’s a lucky buses didn't run late here. I placed my head on the dashboard and just sobbed, and Genevieve let me. She knew it was hard to move on after someone you loved died, she’d experienced this when her husband died four years ago from a heart attack.

I lost track of time. We could have been in the car for minutes or it could've been hours. All I knew was being here right now, talking to Genevieve made the pain go away. At least until we stopped talking.

We talked about Mom and how Genevieve and Mom grew up together. We talked about their memories together. Then Genevieve started talking about when she met Dad. I must admit, it was a funny conversation, but I wasn’t in the mood for laughter. I did force a smile upon my face, but deep down I was screaming. Finally, we got to the conversation I was waiting for: when Milo was born.

“He was a premature baby; born five weeks before the expected date,” Gen told me. “Your mom nearly died then, giving birth. I remember the day, September 13th, 1991. Your father was all nervous and passed out a few times, but you mother and I were fine. We were having a good, old laugh, just like before she got pregnant.” Genevieve looked out the window, and then checked the clock on the dashboard. She was trying to look for words. I knew she didn’t want to tell me everything, but she wanted to keep my mind off of the important things.

“After Milo was born things changed. Your mother and father fell deeply in love, and wanted every one of Milo’s dreams to come true. When you were born things only got better.”

Aunt Genevieve looked out the window, but this time not to buy time. Instead it was to cover the tears which were now falling. “I’m sorry. I should have been there. I should have looked after you when your dad and mom couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She said in a rush as the tears now fell down her face and gave me a hug.

I was in shock. Was Gen blaming herself for the accident? I felt like crying too, but it's all been about me. I didn’t realise that my Aunt was suffering from the loss also. How could I be so selfish?

That night I didn’t sleep much. Once I finally stopped crying and fell asleep, I woke again to the noise of taps on my window. I guess I just wasn’t used to my Auntie’s holiday house. I wanted to go home. Well, it's either I go home, or that tree which keeps tapping on my window has to be chopped down.

Just looking out the window made things ten times worse. I needed to leave, needed to go home!

It was too early to wake Genevieve up, so I supposed I should just get some sleep. I grabbed my iPod off the bedside table, and turn on one of my favourite Wolfmother albums. The volume was only on low, so I could still hear the tapping on the window from the tree outside.

Out of annoyance and tiredness, I cranked the volume up so it drained out all other noise — all my senses. It was so loud that it made me forget my problems — for a little while anyway.

Even though I fell back to sleep, I still woke very early in the morning. My first thought was that I’d be going to England tomorrow and my second thought, was wanting to collect my things from home.

There was no more numbness or pain about the accident. I may have feeling. I’d be a freak if I didn’t. I lost my family for heavens sake - but why, why no more numbness?

“Oh Good. You're awake!” Aunt Gen smiled as she peaked through my door. “How are you feeling?” she asked as she sat on the end of my bed.

“Um, ok I guess.” I even smiled a little and it wasn’t forced like all of the others.

“That’s great, darling.” She kissed me on my forehead and then picked my iPod up off of the floor. It must have fallen off of my bed once I fell asleep.

“Can I get some more rest please?" I asked her, thinking of an excuse. "I didn’t sleep much last night and we are traveling all day tomorrow.” I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” she whispered, trying to hide the hurt in her voice.

Once Aunt Gen left, I just stared at the ceiling. I was really going away to England. A place on the other side of the world — literally. It’s scary thinking how big the world is.

Do you believe in soul mates? In a way I do. Someone owns my heart, I just haven’t found him yet — my soul mate may even be a girl for all I know. I haven’t had many boyfriends, although I was sort of the ‘it’ girl at my school.

My first ever serious boyfriend was Reiss Connery. He had everything: looks, money and an amazing personality. Unfortunately he had to move to Scotland, so that meant we had to split up. My second serious boyfriend was a boy called Zack Thomas- he's my best friends brother. We split up just before the accident. Of course I had other boyfriends, not just these two — but they didn’t last long, maybe a week or two.

I was startled when my iPhone vibrated. Oh dear, why am I so jumpy? It’s just a text Freya. Calm down. Breath. I mentally told myself, whilst panting like I just had a crazy man running at me with a knife. I leant over and grabbed my phone.

F, how u holdin up? Miss u. Ring me be4 u leave. Love Is.

I felt like crying again as I read the text. I’m going to miss Is loads. Is and I have been best friends since we were five. I was getting bullied on our school playground and she came over and helped me. Ever since then I’ve been the one everyone looked up to, and I’ve been Is’ BFF.

Is, goin 2 miss you! I’ll ring when I leave and when there. How's family? Spoke to Zack? I feel bad. Going 2 sleep. Love you loads Is, F xx SEND.

Why is it so hard to let go? Is was the one who made me, me. Without her by my side when I live in England, I will just be a nobody. Maybe that’s a good thing. No attention, then no messing things up. I want to be liked for me; not for my money, or my looks.

Y u feel bad? Speak 2morrow then. Love, Is xx

Why did she have to text back? Now I feel obliged to text her back.

No Freya, get some sleep. That was weird. It was like there was someone in the room speaking the words to me. Is that even possible? It's only my subconscious. Well, I suppose it could be. I’ve learnt a lot in life, and one thing I have learnt it that anything is possible if your determine enough to believe it.

When I woke up, the alarm clock read 23:42 PM. I was only meant to sleep for a few hours, have a little rest, but instead I slept for near enough twelve hours. I haven’t even eaten a proper meal since the accident. Thinking about it, I am kind of hungry.

I wonder if Gen is awake. Probably not, considering it is nearly midnight. Being ever so quiet, I crept downstairs, turning on all the lights as I went because it was pitch black inside this house at night.

There was hardly anything in the fridge; Gen must have cleared it all out because of us going to England in the morning. I decided to stick to something plain and simple, like a bowl of Kellogg’s Cornflakes.

“Oh, Freya is awake,” I heard Gen whisper, almost like she breathed the words. It’s sort of like when my subconscious speaks to me. It's there and you know it's there but it isn’t there physically. Does that even make sense? Where is she though? She is nowhere downstairs so perhaps I imagined it. What’s happening? I guess I’m just looking into things, maybe I’m just playing with my mind.

Not thinking anymore of it, I wash up my cereal bowl and went into the living room. What shall I do? I’m not tired anymore and I’m bored. If I just sit here thinking of nothing, I will think about the accident. Suppressing a sigh, I turn on the television. What to watch? Flicking through the channels, I saw True Blood season one. Milo and I always used to watch True Blood. Mom never let me because it's an eighteen, but Milo loved to break the rules.

The True Blood episode was the one when Maryann Forrester bails Tara out of jail. I hate Maryann, ever since she first showed up, right until Sam kills her in the end of season two. Milo and I always use to have debates over her, he use to love her, whilst I hated her guts.

Once the last few episodes of season one were finished I felt a bit tired so I had a little lie down. I felt really nervous about being on a plane tomorrow. I’m usually okay with planes, but being on one for twelve hours is the scary part. I wished Mom was here to comfort me.

“Freya, time to wake up,” Genevieve said, as she gave me a little wake up nudge.

“What time is it?” I moaned.

“Well, let me put it this way, you have four hours to get ready.” She was packing her suitcase. This meant that shoes and clothes surrounded her. It was like I woke up in the middle of a jumble sale. At least I didn’t have to pack; Gen and I packed my suitcases just before the funeral — it helped us get our mind off of things, especially the accident.

“Going to get ready then,” I grumbled.

Looking in the mirror made me realise a few things. Firstly, I’m not happy with myself. I don’t like the way I look anymore. Second, my life is changing dramatically; I’m not the “it” girl anymore. I’m more of “the girl who lost her parents.” Another thing I realised was that I liked to see myself like this, all ruined and torn apart. Usually I’d be wearing makeup, hair perfectly done, clothes designer; now it’s just hair tied back, no makeup, puffy eyes. Basically, I looked a mess.

My blonde hair should be straight and perfect — everyone use to envy my hair. Well let's face it. Everyone use to envy me.

“Gen, I’m going to run to the shops. I’ll be back in an hour,” I said once I was ready and decent enough to leave the house. I left before Gen could respond. I was going to the shops whether she liked it or not. I needed change.

At the hairdressers I was frozen. What shall I do now that I’m here? I don’t have a clue why I came in the first place, just that I knew I needed change.

I love my hair, I love this look, but it all reminds me of Mom. I never wanted to be popular, it was all Mom’s decision. She bought me the designer clothes, hired me the make up stylist — who had done my hair and makeup for a month, and taught me how to make perfection out of it. In a short amount of time I had everything, and that was all because of Mom. I don’t want to be me anymore. Mom created my image, Mom made me, me. I can’t live a life when my mom’s dead and the look I have is because of her. I can’t live like this. I want to change. I need to change!

When I look up at the hairdresser, I realise she is waiting for me to speak. She was waiting for me to answer a question she asked a few moments ago; what was that question?

“What would you like doing today dear?” I heard the woman say in the same hushed voice as when I heard Genevieve speak last night. I knew this woman didn’t say the words aloud because her lips didn’t move and her facial expression showed that she was annoyed because I was taking too long to answer.

“Hair dye and a trim please,” I instructed in a bold voice, the sort of voice I used to boss people around at school.

“Sorry, appointments only,” she replied in a snobby voice. If I were myself right now I’d use black mail or call for my girls, who would smash her face in. However, I simply couldn’t be bothered.

“Here! £200. This should pay for my hair to be dyed and my hair to be trimmed. I want to be walking out of here in an hour, so be careful but quick.”

She was looking at me like I just set fire to some tennis balls and started to juggle.

“Why not give yourself a tip out of the remains,” I added. I know I’m paying £90 over the normal price but I need to have my hair changed.

Sitting in the chair, facing the mirror, I realised how scared I was. Would my mom want me to do this? Obviously she doesn’t and I'm going to respect that, but why shouldn’t I make changes? Why should I live a lie, when there is no one I should be lying to?

“Can I please have the darkest brown colour all over please, with a streak of your darkest purple here,” I said, whilst playing my hand under half of my hair on my left.

“You sure?” the woman asked. She had an expression all over her face which read ‘Is she mad? Should I do this? She will kill me if she doesn’t like it.’ “It is quite a dramatic change from your lovely blonde hair.”

“I’m paying, so just do it please. And don’t mess up!” I ordered.

With the look of child who has just been told off, the woman got all the dye ready whilst her supervisor put a protective gown over my clothes. It's scary just thinking about it, but now I’m doing something I never would of if Mom was still alive.

Milo would be here with me right now, trying to talk me out of it. Mom would be at home freaking out, and arguing with Dad about it — if he was there. Dad wouldn’t care though, thinking about it. Dad would probably be at work — like he always was.

As soon as the hairdresser put the first bit of hair dye on my hair I felt a wave of emotions; I mainly felt destroyed but relieved. No more pretending.

When my head was full of dye, the hairdresser left my hair to set. I didn’t realise I was crying until I looked at myself in the mirror. Tears were streaming down my face, it really hurt- not physically, but mentally. Deep down inside of me I didn’t want to do this, but it was time for change.

Whilst having my hair washed, I got over the fact that Mom would probably be planning to kill me right now. Instead, I took in the fact that this is the new me. Even as the hairdresser was cutting my hair, I didn’t feel sad, I was actually quite happy.

“Thank you,” I whispered when she finished combing my hair.

“It suites you,” she smiled. Although she was probably telling a lie — probably wanting to get in my good books — I actually really liked it. I hoped Genevieve liked it. Thinking about it, I’m meant to be at the house and getting ready. We’re supposed to be at the airport in just over two hours.

When I walked through the front door Genevieve was there. She didn’t realise it was me though, so she screamed. She actually thought a stranger walked straight into her house. “Get out of my house! I will call the police!”

“Aunt Gen, it's me!”

She still didn’t realise it was me, so she screamed again.

“Look!” I pushed the sleeve of my arm up and showed her the scar from the accident.

“Freya? What have you done to your hair?” Genevieve exclaimed, moving back a little.

“I needed change. I’ve paid for it myself. Now I need to go and get ready!” I stormed past her and walked up the stairs. I don’t know why I responded like that. I was just so annoyed that I couldn't make my own choices without being questioned.

I went straight into my bathroom and had a quick wash — there was no point in having a shower now, I just had my hair washed.

“F?” Genevieve whispered as she knocked on my door.

“Only my friends and Milo get to call me F!” I shouted back to her. I didn’t know why I was so annoyed and angry. I felt so hurt, so ashamed, that I wanted to shout. I know I shouldn’t take my pain out on Genevieve but I honestly couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“Sorry, can't bring Mom and Dad back. Sorry, won't give me my brother. Sorry, won't stop us from moving to England!” I cried.

“I know, sweetie. I can't do anything about that. Just please open the door,” she said in a soothing voice. How can she be so calm about this? Isn’t she hurting too? I swear these mood swings are going to be the death of me.

When I didn’t respond she said, “I lost them too. Don’t you think that was hard for me? I’m just dealing with it in a different way than you. Just please open the door so we can talk about it and so we don’t miss our flight.”

I went back into my bathroom. Looking at my self in the mirror, and making sure I was suitable to leave. I opened my bedroom door. Genevieve was sitting on the floor and tears were streaming down her face.

“Aunt Gen, I’m sorry. It's just, I still feel like they’re here. And then I look around, and there is nothing. Just silence.” Tears started to fall down my cheeks. It was this moment that I realised I needed to be strong. I needed to make a change.