Chapter 1: Rain
The rain pounds the medal roof above me as I lay wrapped up like a new born next to my only possessions: a picture of my mother, and my escape. To tell my story I have to explain these objects to you first.
The picture of my mother, my mother was a wonderful woman who came from poor circumstances. It brings tears to my eyes to write her name, Rebecca Daniel. She became pregnant early in her high school years with a man named Gerald Boucher. He is my father if you can even call him that. They got married and had me January 3, 1996 in a small motel room in some small town with paramedics delivering me. Gerald didn’t want to waste gas driving to the hospital. It was a rainy night just like this one, the weather of that night is exceedingly metaphorical to my life as a person who has never felt love or warmth.
Love, what is love really? I wonder often if love even exists or if it’s just another fairy tale that most people believe in similar to religion. Love has forever evaded me; I’ve never been loved and have never loved anything. I don’t even love myself. As a matter of fact I don’t even know who I am. I often stand in the mirror hour after hour and look at the person in the reflection and don’t recognize the person across from me. It’s been that way since my mother passed.
The night she passed was the most tortuous and despairing moment of my life yet the most truth inspiring event that has happened to me. I was with a few of my friends and coming home about 3:00 and saw vomit on the ground as I walked through the door. I continued to the kitchen to see pills scattered across the rotted tile of our tiny apartment and 3 empty pill bottles. I began to call for my mother and the only response was a moan coming from the bathroom. By this point I knew what she had done and that she had already sealed her own fate in killing herself. I approached the bathroom and the door stood cracked and I could only see her feet and I stood there for at least 3 minutes looking at them twitch and listening to the groans and the regurgitation of my mother. I mustered enough courage to open the door wider and gaze upon my mom. But even when I did this I still was to afraid to look up at her and my eyes stayed fixed upon her cold, pale feet. As I look back on it I possibly could have saved her for I stood there a quarter hour listening to the torture she inflicted upon herself but I fail to feel any remorse at all for I did her a favor in letting her leave this hell pit we call Earth. She began to gasp my name trying to get me to look up at her saying Ryan over and over again, when I finally looked her in her eyes which are usually a beautiful light brown were black as the night sky and the pupils seem to feel the white completely. Thick white foam dripped from her mouth and was making it hard for her to speak. She took one last breath and said one thing as I looked into her black eyes “The horses may run in the field but the ones truly loved prance in the woods.” Her last sentence continues to trouble me to this day. It speaks more truth than all the words I’ve ever heard in my life.
© Copyright 2016 Davis Anderson. All rights reserved.
Book / Literary Fiction
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