Chapter 1: Death Rears its Ugly Head

I was a mere eleven years old when my mother died.

On the day that my mother died, I was totally inexperienced with everything that comes with death; the pain, the mourning, and the anger towards something you can barely understand-- if you can ever understand it. When she passed, I was too old to be completely unaware of it, but far too young to be able to comprehend it in such a way that only comes with age. I had never lost anyone before my mother... No one at all. That's probably why her death sticks out the most in my mind. That's probably why I'll always remember it the most; as human beings, our first experience with death should never come when we are children-- and when it's the large magnitude of actually losing a parent... well, that makes it all the more unbearable.

My mother's death is what mainly began everything that has affected me up until womanhood; she was twenty-nine years old, while my father was thirty-three; she being far too young to expire, and he being much too young to lose her-- his soul-mate as he had so lovingly called her all throughout my life.

Afterwards, I would be asked by many how it had felt to have lost a parent at such an early age in my life; whenever asked, I would simply not answer, or well up, and start crying-- reliving the awful moment all over again when I had realized that I would never be with one of the only people who really mattered in my life again... But then again, had I the strength or courage to have answered such a question, I am unsure if I would have been able to do it justice, for who can answer such a question when one is so inexperienced with matters such as life and death as I was?

For death came to her so suddenly-- as if by curse.

I suppose that her death was far more easy than what most will inevitably experience when their life is at last ended, for she passed away in her sleep; a death I hope was quite peaceful-- one that would not cause much pain to such a good woman. I like to think that her heart just ceased its precious beating, and if she had been dreaming, her mind just went blank, and she must have thought her death a mere dream.

It was a Saturday morning the day that she died; as soon as my eyes snapped open, I immediately bolted out of bed, quickly dressed, and crept down the hall; attempting to ignore my father's loud snores that were coming from behind the closed door that led to the bedroom he and my mother had always shared; I walked down the long staircase, and soon reached the landing; expecting the enticing aroma of hot, steaming pancakes to be wafting from within the kitchen-- as I always did, but there came none.

"Mom?" I called out, pushing the door to the kitchen open, "Mom, are you making breakfast?" I asked, peering inside... my mother's presence was absent from the kitchen, Odd... I thought, backing away from the doorway, and letting the door gently slam shut, Where is she? I wondered.

For some strange and altogether unfathomable reason-- although it would make much more sense when I became older, I panicked; my entire body tensed up, "Mom!" I screamed, as I felt my feet acting on their own accord; they began to run back towards the staircase, "Mom!" I screamed again, as I took the stairs two at a time, and my heart continued to beat faster still, "Mom!" I repeated one final time, as I wrenched the door to my parent's bedroom open; waking my father in the process, "What's wrong?" he asked, groggily; giving me a look that made his entire face look like a large question mark; his eyes glanced at the bedside table beside him, "It's--"

"Dad," I whispered, "where's Mom?"

"Right here, honey," he replied, pointing to the lifeless body that lay beside him.

I ran over to their bed, and sort of pulled my mother's corpse out of it, "Mom?" I repeated, staring into her closed eyes that would never open again; she did not respond, and it was only after a few seconds of staring at her pale face that we realized that the woman my father and I had loved so dearly was now gone forever.

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I stared up at the ceiling of my bedroom as I cried the following evening, Why her? I wondered, bitterly, as an owl hooted in an oak tree miles away; I had been asking the question to myself all day long, and I knew that although I would never be able to answer it, it was all I could think about.

I rolled over in bed, and tried concentrating on my bedspread to try to fall asleep; but instead, my thoughts returned to the fact that my mother's body was in a morgue on the other side of town; I shuddered gently, and began sobbing again.

It's not fair, I thought, Why her?

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Why her? I wondered again, as my alarm clock rang the following morning, and I was forced to get out of bed, and attempt to force something down so that I wouldn't become any sicker than I already was.

I stared into the mirror, and didn't bother fixing up my face, although dark bags were under my eyes, and my hair was stringy, and frightening-looking; my eyes suddenly darted to a small framed photograph of my mother and me at the beach-- a photograph that had only been taken about six months ago; my eyes welled up with tears as I realized that I would never be able to spend time with my mother again.

"Mom," I murmured gently, crying, turning the photograph to the side so that I would not see it any longer; I sobbed heavily; my shoulders shook, and my face felt damp and and strange.

I wanted her to be somewhere wonderful-- if there was such a thing as an afterlife, but I was doubtful on whether or not her soul had lived on; I had never been a very religious person, and yet I tried to keep the hope that I would see my mother again one day.

Please let it be true, I thought.

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I stared into the bowl of cereal in front of me, and quickly pushed it aside, "I can't eat anything," I whispered to my father; my voice still full of anguish and anger at the death of my mother, "I just can't eat if she can't."

My father slowly nodded, and stared into the full mug of dark coffee he clutched in his hands, "But she would have wanted us to go on with our lives," he whispered, as fresh tears began rolling down his cheeks as well, and into the black liquid.

"It's not fair," I whimpered, realizing that my father too had heavy lids under his eyes, "Why did she have to die so soon?"

"I don't know," he whispered, wiping the tears away from his cheeks, "But we have to try and live without her... We have to."

And his words seemed to make my mother's death much more real and final.

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Her funeral was held the following week; the doctors who performed the autopsy informed my father and me that her death had been caused by a "Massive Heart-Attack" over the telephone; when my father told me this, I felt much skepticism, "Mom was really healthy," I kept on insisting over and over again that day.

I do not remember very much about the service... What sticks out the most in my mind is the burial; I remember shuddering as the long, slim black coffin was lowered into the gaping hole inside of the ground-- her new home-- her grave; I recall my grandmother's screams of anguish as dirt was tossed into the hole, and I remember shuddering once again when I realized that my once so lively, and loving mother would grow cold, and rot inside that deep hole...