Ghosts of the Living

On the night I was murdered, I never saw it coming. I believe no one knows when it is coming, death, I mean. It could happen when you're 100, quickly passing away from you're loved ones with a smile on your face. A peaceful, natural death. One where you go with the knowledge that you lived a fulfilling life. A full life. Or, like me, it could happen on your 17th birthday, slow and painful.

One where the ground is finger painted scarlet with your blood. One where I never knew if my family loved me more than they loved champagne and social hours. One where my life did not flash behind my eyes because it was not a life worth reliving, even for a couple of seconds before falling into nothingness. That night, I picked up an extra shift at Mamma Giordanno's, the local pizza joint. My parents kindly commanded more than suggested that I should be out of the house so that they could host my mother's annual Gemstone soiree with all of my mother's uptight, botoxed friends.

They didn't even wish me a happy birthday. I doubt they even remembered. I didn't care, anyway. I suppose I should have more. Maybe if I caused a scene, my mother would have had one of her meltdowns and  would run off to her room, and my father would give me his look, the one with as much disgust as his plastic surgery could muster. The one that screamed," Adara, go to your room this instant." In a British, snotty accent. If they had cared, I may not be telling this story. If they had cared, perhaps I wouldn't be dead. 

When I entered Mamma's, I was immediately overwhelmed with the scent of burnt pizza and  way too much garlic,  its signature scent. Normally this smell repulses people, as the minuscule amount of customers proves. For me, it smelled inviting. It smelt like home. Before my hand reaches to close the door, I am engulfed by arms and hands and hair.

"Adara, darling!" Mamma shouts. A smile immediately lights up my face. Mamma was just that sort of person. With her short height, perfect blond curls, and dainty red lips she resembles more of a doll then a mamma. After her mother, the real mamma, passed away 5 years ago, everyone began to call her mamma. Sometimes, to make her mad, I call her Mamma Mia, a nickname for her actual name of Amelia. Mia is only 32 years old and for as long as I could remember, she acted more like my mother then my actual one.

She backs away and then frowns when she stares at the calender behind the pizza counter.

"Sweetheart, I love you, but what the hell are you doing in this greasy ol' dump on the night of your 17th birthday!"

"Hey!" Ralphie, Mia's uncle, cries from the kitchen.

"Sorry, Ralphie! Its the truth!" She calls back. I look at Ralphie and smile. He always dresses up like a stereotypical Italian Pizza chef with a fake handlebar mustache, white hat, and white uniform.

"I had nothing better to do," The sad thing was, I was telling the truth.

"What about your parents?" Concern starts to make her face wrinkle. I should have told her to stop, that it will make her age quicker by doing that. But I didn't. I stayed silent.

I look down at my curls. No matter how many times I pulled, tugged or straightened them, they always bounced back into shape, like a black ball. I sometimes wished that I could be that resilient. When ever you pulled or tugged on me, I stayed out of shape. I didn't bounce back.

"Oh, honey." She pulls me into a tight hug and begins to rub circles on my back.

"Here. I meant to give it to you yesterday, but since you're here....I thought it might cheer you up."

She had a tiny parcel the size of her palm in her outstretched hands. I grabbed it and admired its pale blue ribbon and pink wrapping paper. 

"Its beautiful, Mia." I whispered.