"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I spit at him, the anger laced in my voice angered him and I loved it. I watched as he clenched his jaw, staring at me as his eyes darkened; walking up to me, soon towering over me making me realize how small I w...
MATTHEO RIDDLE IS YASMINE AMARO'S. CALANTHA, NICCOLÒ, KASSANDRA, EPIPHANY, AND ERISED ARE MINE. ALL OTHERS UNLESS MENTIONED ARE JK R*WLINGS.
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T R I G G E R W A R N I N G
SWEARING
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Four Days After The Party
CALANTHA
THE air outside is fresh, and the rain was cold, but I continued to dip my head over the railing of the long bridge, letting the small droplets land on my forehead and stream down my face, tasting the purity of the water on my lips. The time was running down and soon enough it would be the third anniversary of my Mother's leaving.
I was pushing it back farther into my mind, trying to suppress the reclamation of how I would have to relive those events again--the hearing that she was gone and the vision of her lifeless body laid so placidly before me in a beautifully carved casket, put so vulnerably on display for the weeping members of my dismantled family to walk upon her and wish her their deepest farewells, to place a slowly desiccating rose on her chest, one after another as if it meant something to her. And to have to fit my lifelong apology in a short five minute span from which I also have to come to terms with it all being the last time I was going to see her.
Her grave was destroyed in a storm, and there was no place, no home, for me to go and visit her once lively entirety. She was a beautiful secret, never staying in one place long enough to make an impact on it, though making sure every person she ever encountered would remember her. I had none of her belongings, none of her free spirit nor her willingness to find the truest of beauty in others. The only thing I had of her was her, and now I have nothing because she is gone.
When I was little, we would sit in the garden and watch the rain fall while we laid in beds of freshly planted flowers. She was a special person, and I don't say that because she was my Mother, nor because she is dead, but simply because she was. Not once did someone that she met had disliked her, every person loved her.
I wish it didn't take me as long as it did for me to realize how much I loved her.
Because by the time I did, I was holding her cold hand and thinking about how she would've made a fit about how they buried her in a cotton dress and not a satin one. How she didn't even want roses at her funeral, but daisies. And how they put lipstick on her even though she never wore makeup because she looked more beautiful without it.
Being in the rain reminded me of her, no matter where I was or who I was with, she was there with me. She was everywhere, and she was everything. She was the one thing I knew I would never be able to stop loving.
Nobody understands it, because all they tell me is that she loved me, and that she knew I was sorry. But it's not good enough, because I needed to hear her say it. I needed to know that she understood just how sorry I was and how much I wanted to make it up to her.
