All I could smell were the bundles of roses and assorted flowers surrounding me. The silence of quick sobs and low wails of my friends and loved ones burned in my now quiet ears.

I remember watching my body being cleaned and dressed for the funeral that would be held the following day. I hated the look of my flat, limp body. It made me look so.....dead. I still couldn't believe that that bright sunny Saturday could be my last day alive. Murder was all it was.

Lying in the dark smooth wooden casket, my eyes are closed tight. Suddenly I feel a hot, wet tear fall onto my stone cold cheek. My mother is above my body crying for me. She looks completely worn and helpless. In a ragged, tired voice she whispers "I love you" in my ear.

The night of my death, my father had come home drunk. He'd called me up from my basement room, yelling at my mother. I'd stood in the corner, afraid of what he might do to me if I spoke up. Then he slapped my mom across the face. I whimpered and started crying, knowing that I was much too young to fight back. He then pointed a cold silver gun to my temple and that's when my mom broke. She begged him not to shoot me and all I did was cry. Then I heard the gun shot. The front door slammed and my mom was bawling hysterically. The last thing I heard her say was "why my son?"

As people left quietly through the funeral home doors, I could tell it was finally over. They closed the lid of my deathbed and all i could see was darkness.