The Dark Room This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

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     Click-click-click-clack. That was the only sound I heard. Somewhere in the background, music played. I didn’t really hear it. I just played it to cover other sounds, sounds I couldn’t bear to hear. Click-click-click-clack, I typed in the darkness. I could almost forget. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

The room was dark except for the eerie half light from my monitor. Darkness deeper than any lack of light could explain filled that room. It suited me, for a darkness I couldn’t explain had filled me that day. Soon it would make sense.

The sound of footsteps entered my world. A soft voice whispering my name entered. I tore my view from the screen and saw my sister Sarah motioning frantically for me. My heart stopped. A million nightmares rolled through my mind at once. A million more soon followed. I was running into the living room before I even knew I was standing.

I looked on helplessly as I watched my mother draw her last breath. I don’t remember moving, but I was by her side. The next moment found me on my knees. Tears came to my eyes, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I whispered over and over again, “Mom.”

All my strength faded in seconds, and I was left defenseless. A hand rested on my shoulder, but such was my weakness. I could do nothing but place my hand on it and cry. I heard the tears of my family. All I wanted was to fall on the floor and go where she had gone. But I couldn’t.

My legs burned in protest as I forced them to support my weight. I refused to take this on my knees. I might cry, but I would cry on my feet. The strong arms of my dad encircled me, and I hugged him back. My head fell on my father’s shoulder. I felt my sister Sarah join in with my brother Ben. My other brother had left, but a quick phone call brought him back.

After two long years of struggle and pain, my mother lost her battle with cancer. She died December 14, 2001. Fate be kind to her.

Since then my dad has remarried. I’ve moved from the house where she died, and slowly I’ve tried to move on with my life. For over a year, I couldn’t talk about her without crying. Much of the time I spent depressed. I felt the cold emptiness of loss every moment of every day.

I still miss my mother, and I always will. But I no longer have tears in my eyes after looking at her picture in my wallet. Her memory will live on. It will outlive me because I will make sure my children know their grandmother was a wonderful and fantastic woman whose life was taken from her and robbed from me.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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