The pain of death

Reads: 289  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
a short story about the death of a mother

Submitted: February 01, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 01, 2015

A A A

A A A


And there she sat, beautiful yet sad, stone as ice and as warm as life. The life she once had. It had been this way in the three weeks since moving here. Her extent of omnipresence was staggering. Her lid waiting to be opened; yet not wanting to see the light. Who ever knew it hurt this much to lose your mum.

 

We moved here to escape the constant petrichor; the lingering rains ever present waiting to be ignored. After the loss, it was unbearable to live under the loving roof, which was so enveloped in her life, yet ever tainted with her death.

 

So we had packed all of our things and had driven in silence for hours to the relief we had craved since her loss. We had stumbled upon this house and had bought without question. We moved in within the day and had gloomily created a space that we could live in, but most of the boxes lay unopened in the corner. And that is where she lays, stacked with the rest, all the relics that make up her intangible soul, all of the memories that we try to forget.

 

Light streams through my window, providing contrast to my life and illuminating the bare, monotoned walls that are as emotionless as the inhabitants within. As the day lingers on, I dare not move as though a single step could re-ignite the ice of death, providence of the flames of hell.

 

 

All I keep telling myself is that she is still here somewhere, and all I have to do is wait.

 

But as time falls to the past, I start to doubt her faith. I yell at my walls, hoping they will show her face. And I stare at the box with loathing, as though somehow, she can feel my gaze.

 

I start to pray, a practice far out of my reach. I start begging for death, so I can be with her. But god seems to be as good as the wall.

 

I dare not eat through the pain; each bite would another traitorous act become.

I dare not sleep; as to draw my sheets would be to familiar to be safe.

I dare not cry; as she would not for my tears come, as she ought.

 

My life now barren and cold, this room to become. With less life in torment and thus more in nought. Forced I become to seclude my life to my subconscious, becoming non-present in the ways of norm.

 

As time passes, more and more I dwell till numb I become, to the pain, now memory of my loving mum. Through the halls I now walk, as the ice has melted away.

 

I eat to live and to be continuity to the care she provided

I now can sleep, as in my dreams I am with her.

And I cry for her life, my tears a tribute to her.

 

And there she sits, beautiful yet glad, stone as ice and as warm as life. The life she once had. It had been this way in the three months since moving here. Her extent of omnipresence is staggering. Her lid lying open; and relishing the light.

Who ever knew it hurt this much to lose your mum.

 


© Copyright 2019 esodam. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Other Short Stories

Flash Fiction Summer 2019 Writing Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by esodam

The Eternal peace

Book / Historical Fiction

The pain of death

Short Story / Other

The River 2

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Popular Tags