Being an orphan is not all that. Sure, Anne makes it look easy. Curly Top is a total cutie when she's an orphan and when she's not an orphan. Those are movies. This is real life. Being an orphan sucks. It's like being stuck at home when your entire class goes on a really cool field trip. Or when you find out that your crush picked your friend over you. It's life-sucking and I feel like I might die from the loneliness.
You see, my mother was an art teacher at my school. My father was a wonderful doctor. He saved many lives on a daily basis. My mother, Momma, always encouraged me to be myself, and to succeed in that. Father, Poppa, told me that while I was being myself, I had to follow those unbreakable rules of life to be myself. I loved my parents. They loved me. We weren't poor, we were content.
On the night that they died, we were at a drive-in watching Toy Story. I laughed like an idiot, like a child. Momma passed me the popcorn, Poppa nudged me to say thank you. And I gladly did so.
***Ever since I was five, my education was always progressive. I was homeschooled by night going to public school by day. I have insomnia, sleeping at the most random and inconvenient times. Once I passed out in gym while running for a huge P.E. test. I was in the front and then, PLOP, I was on the ground, sound asleep.
"Honeydew, you did great." Momma said.
I rolled my eyes and patted my bandaged knee, "Momma, I tripped three kids. And because of me, Ms. Nelson had to postpone the test. That's not cool."
Poppa intervened. "Honeycomb, God didn't let you come to be so you could be cool." Poppa always stressed the word cool, making the 'oo' last much longer than it should have. I giggled. Poppa was the one to make me laugh. Momma was there to hug and love and make delicious food.
"Yeah, I guess not. But if I can't be cool, what am I?" This was a regular thing, something I asked every night. And every night, they came up with a new word to describe me. Then I used that word all week.
My parents exchanged a parental look. Momma did a drumroll. Poppa slowly said, "You. Are. Loved." It was as if they sensed that they were going to leave me soon, forever. Maybe they did. Maybe they were running out of words that suited me. I'll never know.
*** Anyway, the night they died. We made our way home. Just as we got outside, a man in a hoody came up and shanked my mother in the stomach. She screamed, I stood stock-still. Blood rapidly leaked out of her clothes.
Poppa ran around the car to save her. He threw his phone at me and I dialed for the paramedics as fast as a nine year old could. I backed away to safety, yelling the emergency, hearing the rushed fighting of my poppa and my momma and the stranger.
"Please, please! Hurry! My momma is hurt, please hurry!" I gave the address, correct down to the exact house decoration. I prayed and hoped and wished that the police would appear instantaneously. But they didn't.
I turned around just as my father fell down in a clump at the killer's feet. He smiled; he was basking in the tainted glory of my parents' deaths. He then looked at me, my nine year old vulnerability. Mr. Killer sauntered toward me, my parents' blood scattered across his jacket. I fought the urge to gag. I could hear sirens in the distance. The distance. He was too close to me, they were far away.
"Come here, little girl." He purred.
I shook my head and took two steps back. He took two steps forward, reached for me, and received my enraged fist. It happily connected to his crotch, and in a brief burst of passion, I did a roundhouse kick into his jaw. The solid crunch it made would've made my poppa proud, if he weren't dead yet. I highly suspected they both were.
"How dare you, you, you, murderer!" I shouted as the police finally arrived. Mr. Killer made an attempt to escape. He didn't make it. They had him down on the ground before I could start to cry.
One, only one, kindly officer had courage to approach my bent over figure. I was shaking with inward tremors, tears flooding my eyes. "It's okay, it's okay." He said as he made to pat my back.
I yelled, "No, it's not! My momma, my poppa, they're dead! He, Mr. Killer, he murdered them. I'm alone, all alone. I've no one now! I'm all alone in the world, so don't say it's okay. Because it's not. It will never be. As long as my parents are dead. Never, never, never, never!" I clutched my head and continued my sobbing.