Papillon

Chapter 42: Polarizing

Francis

Death is defined as the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.

Life is defined as the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding death.

It was interesting, I thought, how dependent on one another each was, though at the same time, so opposite. In fact, nothing in the world was more polarizing than life and death.

Most days, I felt empty. I didn't particularly feel anything.

But then some days, I felt too much. I felt the wind in the air, the leaves as they fell, the gravel under my shoes, and the ache in my heart.

Moreau's money was my money now, thanks to Christian's lawyers, and though there was still too much money, I donated most of it to organizations that Moreau would never support wholeheartedly, no matter what he may have said on TV. I donated to battered women's shelters. I donated to child abuse organizations. I donated to every organization I could think of that cared for victims of abuse.

I donated it all in the name of Adelaide Duval, who was, through it all, a fucking survivor.

At the age of sixteen, Mama had more strength and courage in her body than any ten people I knew.

Mama was a survivor of sexual assault and kept the child it had cursed her with, even though it was an everyday reminder of the horrifying past she'd endured.

Mama kept quiet about her abuse for years, even though it would have been easy for her to expose Moreau, just because she didn't want me to get hurt in the process.

Mama taught children every day, told them to follow their dreams and work hard to accomplish everything they wanted, even though she never got a chance to fulfill any of hers.

Mama believed in true love, in something special, even though she'd never experienced that herself.

Mama prayed for me to have a good life, more than herself, because she never did and she wanted me to move to America and become whatever I wanted to become.

Mama was the strongest woman I knew.

For years, it was just her and me.

Now, it was just me.

How the fuck does a person live with that?

Five months had passed since Mama's death–the end of her life.

Five months had passed since the last time I drew in a breath that didn't feel painful or riddled with an insurmountable portion of guilt.

Five months since I'd seen or spoken to my best friends, even though I thought of them every single moment I was even able to formulate a cohesive thought.

I thought of Christian, and how he'd not thought once of how it would hurt his company to be exposing such a prominent public figure but did it for me without a moment of hesitation. Not to mention, he'd been the person to arrange that every single asset and dime of Moreau's was left to me, and only me, even if I didn't care for such materialistic things. I wouldn't have to struggle for another day in my life.

I thought of Damon, who, despite my best efforts, did have more blood on his hands because of me, and the culpability I'd seen in his eyes when he couldn't save Mama. Not a day went by that I didn't want to pick up the phone and tell him that it wasn't his fault, and I didn't blame him even one bit. I wanted to tell him that Mama loved him like her very own son, and I wouldn't even be alive today, or for the past nine years if it wasn't for him.