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She's Not Coming Home

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I watched her as she died in the hospital bed. I didn’t cry like everyone else did. I wasn’t even sad. I knew my mommy was gone forever, but I guess some people just take news better than others. The police said that they found her in the kitchen; I was asleep in my bed when they got there. They didn’t know who did it. They said they thought it was daddy, but he was away on business. He couldn’t have done it.

After that night, I went to stay with my aunt Ginny. She wasn’t taking the news well. Her sister had died. I didn’t see her much. She was always on the phone or in her room crying. I played with my cousins most of the time, or went outside and played with the dog. He was really good at fetch.

When we went to the funeral, mommy’s casket was closed. I knew they only closed caskets when the body was too mangled to see. I overheard Ginny talking to grandma;

“A funeral is no place for a child.”

I didn’t mind. I’d been to a funeral once; when daddy’s brother died. His casket was closed too. He got hit by a car and they couldn’t let his family see him like that. I wondered what mommy looked like. The last time I saw her was when she tucked me in for bed on the night she was killed.

As we sat down and the preacher began to pray, I looked around and saw everybody was crying, or at least holding back tears. I wondered why I didn’t even feel sad. Come to think of it, I hadn’t cried once in the two days since mommy died. I hadn’t felt sad or angry. I wasn’t “happy”, but I wasn’t upset. No one asked me if I was sad. I guess they thought I didn’t understand; that I was too young. I strayed away from my thoughts for a moment. The preacher was telling everyone how mommy was in a better place. If mommy was in a better place then why was everybody so upset? If she wasn’t in pain or suffering anymore, then why wasn’t anyone at least a little bit happy. I knew mommy was in heaven. Maybe that’s why I’m not crying.

That night we all went back to grandma’s house. The usual smells of her house were covered by the smell of about 4 different perfumes that all smelled terrible. The usual sound of grandma clanking around the kitchen with pots and pans and grandpa’s record player were overcome with silence. All the adults were in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating cake leftover from the dinner the church had after the funeral. I was upstairs playing with cars with my cousins and I heard a knock on the front door. I went downstairs to see who it was, but before I could see, Ginny told me to go back up and keep playing. When I got back upstairs, I went over to the staircase, being as quiet as I could, and tried to listen. I could only hear mumbling. Then there was a moment where no one said anything. Then I heard footsteps. I hurried back into the room with my cousins. It was Ginny again, coming to put my cousins in bed. She was crying. I went downstairs and sat by grandma. She didn’t say anything she just hugged me. I thought I heard her crying but I couldn’t look up because she was holding on too tight.

After a few minutes, we heard the door close, and grandpa came into the living room, followed by the rest of the family. Their faces were blank with shock. Grandma looked at grandpa. She started to cry, as if she knew what he was going to say; and she did. The visitor was a police officer, here to tell my family that my daddy had been found guilty. When I heard this, I suddenly felt cold. The room went fuzzy and I blacked out.

I woke up at home; but something was different. It looked different. It looked like it did before the police closed it off as a crime scene. This is what it looked like before mommy had died. I wondered if I had gone back in time, but that’s not possible. I walked around to try and find someone; but there was no one in the house but me. I went into the kitchen. There was my mommy. She was on the floor in a pool of blood. There was an awful smell in the room. It was almost unbearable. It was dark. The only light was coming from the streetlight outside the window. I tried the light switch but the bulb was dead when I hit the switch. I then noticed the figure seated in the corner of the room on the floor. He had a knife in his hand. I could see the reflection from the streetlight. His face was buried in his knees; his hands outstretched holding the knife. This man wasn’t my father. He was too small to be my father. At closer look, I realized that this wasn’t even a man at all. Then it hit me. Hard. I was hadn’t gone back in time, I was looking into my own memory. I was looking at my mother’s killer. But it was not my father, or a serial killer. It was her son. Me. But how? I would remember killing her. Wouldn’t I? Of course. Then everything went black again.

I had that dream every night since I my dad went to jail. For 14 years I’ve seen that very same memory replayed every night. The doctors say that its nothing and I just need to forget about it. They say my dad killed my mom. That there was no possible way I could have done it; but for some reason I couldn’t shake the feeling there was some truth to it. I heard the voices from other rooms yelling “I’m not insane!” I knew where I was but I didn’t belong there. I’m not like all the others. I’m not insane. I’m not…





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Weepingwllow said...
Feb. 5, 2011 at 10:13 pm

Thats sad. But very well written

 

 
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