The Truth Beneath The Rose

Mercy’s mother died when she was at a very young age. On her death bed, she looked prettier than ever. Her skin had tightened over her face, showing her high cheek bones and delicate structure. Her chestnut brown hair frayed out around her, making her look angelic. Her hands looked younger, like she had gone back to her twenties.

Her hands, Mercy thought. Her hands were always so warm. She remembered holding it while reading her a story from her many, many shelves.

And then she remembered it going cold very suddenly, forcing Mercy to let go in shock. She didn’t understand at first. She asked her mother, “Why are your hands so cold?” And since she didn’t answer, Mercy had said, “I’ll warm them for you.”

She remembered bending down and holding her mother’s larger hands in her palm, and holding them close to her chest. Still, mother wouldn’t answer her, and her hands grew colder and colder. They grew so cold that Mercy dropped them very suddenly. “Mother, what’s happening?”

She wouldn’t answer, but her usually tan skin turned white. Not pale, but white. Her night robes were light blue, and it made her white skin stand out way too much.

After hours of waiting, Mercy had begun crying. “Are you ignoring me, mother? Don’t you love me anymore?” Mercy had been a very sensitive child. It was always her saddest weakness.

No answer.

Very suddenly, daddy had come in. “Honey? Leave mommy to rest, now—“

He stopped short, his eyes going from Mercy’s crying face, to the pale figure under the covers.

He ran to the mother’s side, dropping to his knees and feeling her cold hand. He stared mournfully at her face, and then looked at Mercy. He didn’t cry, but his face was drowned in an unforgettable sadness that she would never forget.

Mercy's mother died a sad death, but after, life was never the same. And then, her father died also. Leaving her completely alone.