Author's Note: I do not own Transformers, only my character and this plot. Enjoy!

Like Yesterday, Like Never.

CHAPTER ONE: A Cold Like No Other

"The death of a mother is the first sorrow wept without her"

Unknown

I kept coughing; my throat was dry with the lack of saliva going down. I was half-expecting that my mother was going to step through my bedroom door and sit on my bed, her hands full with cup of honey and lemon and a jar of Vapor Rub. But when my father came through the door, I closed my eyes.

My mother would never walk through my door or any door, as a matter of fact. She couldn't; she was dead, after all.

"Marie, mi hija, here's a cup of lemon with honey. And I'll leave the jar of Vapor Rub on your nightstand, okay?"

I didn't answer him. I didn't want to. All I did was cough, some more and snuggle deeper into the blankets. I didn't want to talk; not now, not ever.

"Okay, mi hija. Please try to get better. We need to talk about things." I could hear him as he left the room and didn't entirely close my door. I knew what he wanted to talk about. I didn't want to though. This whole 'I-have-a-cold' predicament was the only thing that kept him from talking about my mother's death.

Once I heard him far away from my room, I threw off the covers and lifted the cup of lemon and honey. I drowned it down even though; it was supposed to taste tangy. All I could taste was the honey. He had made it too sweet. 'If she was here―'

I didn't bother finishing that thought. There was no use in thinking about her; no matter what I would say, do, or think, she would never come back.

I coughed a bit more; this time, though, my throat didn't feel strained. I felt my own forehead. There wasn't a sign of a fever coming through. But then again, my mother knew when a fever came with just one single touch, I couldn't.

I sniffle; tears begin to sting my eyes. I lie back on my bed and draw the covers over me. I begin to drift to sleep, and hope that this is all just a dream.

"What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end."

The Things They Carried; Tim O'Brien

I felt cold and hurt, when I watched my father gather my mother's clothing. I knew what was happening even though I feigned ignorance. He was giving her clothing to his sister-in-law, my aunt, to dress my mother up for her funeral.

But as I stared down at her, she looks almost wrong. She looks too stuffed with whatever they stuff dead people with. Her skin is a white that only seems to enhance her death. The way her hands are folded over each other and placed at her midsection, makes want to fix them. She only held her hands that way when she was angry or sad. She should be buried with her happy pose.

She should be buried with her hands tucked into her neck and her face in a happy smile. Not in her sad-slash-angry pose.

"Marie, come on. It's time for eulogy. Tú padre va a ir primero."

I grow rigid at my aunt's soft touch. She guides me towards our seats. I look up and at the podium, my father stands there. He looks awkward and sad. He begins to speak but I don't pay any attention to his words. I only focus on his eyes.

His eyes were always this bright hazel. I had been jealous of them because I had received these dark brown eyes. They didn't seem that bright anymore, though. They seemed darkened with grief. And when they looked my way, which was about every two minutes, they seemed to shout 'Sorry.' I looked away every time.

My aunt's soft touch startled me out of my daze. "It's your turn, Marie."

I stand up and my eyes briefly survey the room. It's filled with family and friends. Some I know by names, others I've long forgotten about.

I carefully walk up to the podium; my father moves to the side and I place my hands on the podium's wood surface. I look back and see my mother still in her casket. She's dead. There's nothing else to say.

I open my mouth, "She…" I pause and look at the crowd. I start again, "She killed herself and I wish she hadn't."

I can hear the gasps and cries from families and friends. I can see my father begin to cry. I can feel this feeling of guilt crawl up my throat, or maybe, just maybe it's the cold that I still have.