Death.
My oldest memory was of my mother's death.
In a darkened room were only a few streaks of sunlight that passes through the broken roof illuminates the shabby place.
Outside that dilapidated house was the noises of both people and animals. The shrieks and laughs of children playing with their pets and the curses and murmurs of adults gossiping about.
In that room, the sound of water droplets echoes like a rippling sound of a disturbed lake in the forest.
The rustling of filthy insects and mice scampering about the dirty floor, scurrying in search of food.
And as the wind blew, passing through the gaps of a broken window, a pungent and rotting smell of flesh filters the entirety of the old house.
A soft creaking sound came, and as I looked up, my eyes inadvertently fell upon the haunting sight before me.
The stillness of the scene seemed almost surreal-a person suspended, motionless, their form swaying ever so gently in the air. The gravity of the moment weighed heavily, the silence filled with unspoken questions. The room felt frozen in time, as if holding its breath in a painful pause.
In the stillness of the room, the morning light filtered through the window, casting a gentle glow on the scene. She hung there, suspended in an eerie calm, the ethereal beauty of her face unchanged by the tragedy that had unfolded.
Her features, once filled with life, now held a serene tranquility that belied the horror of her final act. Her skin, pale against the stark backdrop, seemed almost luminous, as if untouched by the passage of time.
Yet, it was her eyes that held the most haunting presence. Once vibrant sapphires, they now glistened with an otherworldly sheen, catching the sunlight in a way that seemed almost mesmerizing. But despite their beauty, they were empty, devoid of the light that once danced within them.
There was a strange juxtaposition of serenity and sorrow in the way the figure hung there, lifeless yet bearing the marks of a desperate struggle. The eerie quietness enveloped the room, broken only by the creaking of the rope and the distant sounds of the outside world carrying on, oblivious.
I couldn't tear my gaze away, even as my heart clenched with a mixture of shock and sadness. It was a tableau of despair, a silent narrative of a life cut short by unbearable pain.
My poor Mother.
" . . . "
How many days has it been?
Three? Four? Probably a week?
I don't know.
I've lost track of time the moment my eyes laid upon this sight.
Did I cry? I don't know.
Did I call for help? I couldn't.
What should I do? I don't know. . .
Should I get her down? I guess. . .
Should I bury her in the woods?
" . . . "
The woods-
"There's a field of wild flowers in the forest, near the river. Lets go there?"
Was what she said sometime ago.
"Do you like flowers, Mother?"
"Hmn."
"Why?"
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Made a Wish at 11:11 (Complete)
Teen FictionLegend says that if you call out his name at exactly 11:11, he'll appear infront of you and will grant your wish. Althea Morales is an independent student who works as a part-time student and lives alone in an apartment away from his biological fat...
