Painful Memories
I was seven. I was tough. Ever since I had lost my Annabelle I changed. I was a fighter.
My father had taught me to hunt in the times he was home since her death. He told me I needed self defense. I did it everyday, pretending each one of the animals I killed was the murderer of my maid. My Annabelle, memories were slipping away from me about her, just like those of my mother.
No, I shook my head. "Get back to now, Emmet," I thought to myself. "The past is the past, you can't change it." But that didn't mean I didn't miss her.
I went home to an empty house. I sighed at the note. "Dad is probably gone now," I said to myself. Father left unexpectedly a lot, leaving me alone with Buster, my four year old dog.
I skinned my catch and cooked it. As I was eating I let my mind drift.
"But poppa!" I said.
"No, son. Doctor says not to go in." His glare was nasty and got me to be quiet.
I wanted to go in the white doors of the hospital so bad, to see my mother once more.
The strange doctor can out and pulled my father aside. They talked for a while in hushed voices. They alternated between looking at the white doors behind where Momma lay, and me sitting quietly on the bench pretending not to notice them.
They went into another room, and I took this as my chance.
I got up and ran through the double doors to see my mother.
The scene before me was shocking. There she was, my mother, but pale. She didn't have the usual twinkle in her eye when she looked at me.
"You shouldn't be in here, son," she said, with a feather light voice. Then she started coughing wildly, and before I knew it she was unconscious from the coughing.
I crawled up next to her and closed my eyes, pretending she was ok.
Before I knew it the man with pale skin, gold eyes, and light blonde hair came in to see her. He told me to run along for a while. I climbed into her bed, gave her a small kiss on her cheek, and smiled widely. "I love you Mommy," was the last thing I told her.
I snapped back to reality and cringed from the pain induced from the memory. I couldn't handle the pain.
I went to bed and dream painful but happier dreams of my younger years.
Picnics with Annabelle, wrestling Buster, star gazing with Mother, drawing pictures at school. The last thing I remembered thinking that night was anger that my childhood had been forcefully ripped away from me.
