They said it was love. Not romantic love. Something deeper. The rich maternal love that can only come into fruition between a mother and daughter. A love born from a mother, a creator to her progeny.
My mother sought the support of all the finest physicians in the land. When she went to one who told her what she didn't want to hear, she went to another, then another until she exhausted all the available opinions in the country. They all told her the same thing. That giving birth to me would be suicide.
My mother died the day I was born. She knew she would. She chose death. Death to give me life.
And when she was cut open, all bloody and beaten, barely holding on, she commented on the contrast of colours;
How my skin was as white as snow in comparison to the blood. How my short tuffs of hair resembled ebony. How the blood of my lips mirrored the blood flowing into my strong newborn heart , mirrored the blood all around me. Her dying wish was that I be called Snow White.
I would hate my name had my mother not given it to me. Really, it sounds like a sicko white supremacist experiment. But my mother gave me life and gave me my name, so I will always cherish its origin. I will never change it.
I killed my mother. How the fuck does someone get over that?