Thursday, 14 August 2008

In violence, we are not ourselves.

I spend a few last moments among my old things. The musty attic smells sweet, like the scent of my mother when I was a child. I remember how I used to cling to her and make sure she gave me a kiss goodbye before she went anywhere. Her perfume wafting and weaving itself into my memory. The only thing I have left of her is her scent and I actually don't even have it. It just comes upon me when it chooses, like a tiger threatening its prey with its impromptu appearances, leaving the latter living forever timidly in the shadows.

The guilt haunts each day and the regret is just another part of me. I've accustomed myself to them, they are simply two uninvited guests crashing the party, I must have done something to deserve them and I know exactly what it was.

My mother is gone, stolen away from me forever. It's something I have to face each day, but the tears haven't stopped rushing to my eyes. We were close, mother-daughter talks, bonding time, advice and hugs, we had the whole package. It didn't take long for her and my father to realise that there was something wrong, it was evident in the vomiting, the fainting, the pain. She finally agreed to go see a doctor, and she was diagnosed with cancer. Heartbreaking, of all things, cancer. We drifted apart and the stress she went under was an excuse for her to lash out at me when my father wasn't the victim for a change, we still loved her though, I just hope she knew that.

It didn't take long for her to become incapable of most things, including speaking or breathing, or even remembering her own family. It didn't take long for her once eloquent words to morph into sloppy, blurred moans, saliva dripping down the sides of her mouth, and her tongue hanging limp. It didn't take long for her once crystal, sparkling, eyes to turn into cloudy abysses, staring at the ceiling, just waiting for the pain to be over, even if it meant death.

My father became distant, buried himself in his work, became spiteful and could only feel resentment. He blamed most of this on God, saying how God should have considered our feelings and not just his own. I understood his pain.

So I had to do it. I had to be the one to end all of us of our misery, maybe God will never forgive me, but I didn't see the point in him taking her away from us slowly, if he wanted her, he should have done it faster.

So I pulled the plug.

In her last moments, her body didn't move but her eyes cleared instantly, they shined to the brightest brown, nearly luminous. I kissed her cheeks, letting the tears fall, bidding her goodbye.

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