Imperfect

T W E N T Y - T W O - A B I G A L E M U L L I N S

  "I love you all, although you all forgotten the meaning of love..." the writing on the doctor board read, as I remembered it.

  I could still remember the writing that Lawrence left on the board; the writing that left me in tears.

  I missed the hell out of that man. I didn't care about the money; I didn't even want to spend it—like some of these widows who would've probably done it in a heartbeat.

He left all of his money to me, his significant other—I wished he was here with me during this time, but he isn't.

My heart hankered heavily, but there weren't any cure that could let go all of this soreness, it was everlasting, because Lawrence would never come back home to me—he was gone forever.

I sought in the living room, isolated as I would ever be—alone with no one, only me and my unborn child who suffered with listening to my screams every single morning and every single night.

The house stayed a mess very often, with clothing all over the floor; I didn't even sleep upstairs in my bedroom, because it wasn't the same as it used to be... It wasn't the same at all without Lawrence here with me, as we both used to enjoy the ride together...

I don't even remember when the last time that I treaded a foot upstairs.

Now, I was unaccompanied to raise our baby—Amara needed more than this; Amara needed an ordinary family, she needed a mother and father that could to take care of her, not just a mother that could take care of her.

I wanted to rust away; I wanted my ashes to fly in the tough wind, flying across the sky—I wanted to die alone, I wanted to see my husband again, but I couldn't do that—I couldn't do that just yet... My daughter was inside of me and I didn't want her to also suffer the consequences for that I was terribly thinking about committing.

Distressing my pure wretchedness as I rested on the living room couch—raising my heartbeat a little faster than before, I heard the door being knocked on loudly.

I haven't had any visitors since the funeral, which was a few weeks ago.

  People usually contacted me via Facebook, via phone call, via video message, or via text message—but not personally; they thought I should've had some space with myself alone—to deal with the loss of my husband.

Unenthusiastically wanting to get up from the couch, I struggled to get up, scooting my bare feet on the cold, white floor as I walked towards the hammering door.

"Who is it?" I inquired.

"Can I talk to you for a few minutes," the voice explained himself to me, "I just need just a few minutes to talk to you—I know you don't won't to have any visitors, but I really want to talk to you."

Not in the attitude to have any guest, I opened the door, exhaustedly saying, "Please make it quick, because I am not in the mood to see ANYONE."

As I copiously opened the door, I realized that it was Clarence.

"How did you know where I lived?" I asked him, still a little curious.

"Michael texted me the address—I just needed to talk to you."

What did me and Clarence had to talk about?

  There was nothing to talk about, because we barely talked after I saw him at my wedding.

I inadequately walked back over to the living room, gesturing Clarence to follow me and to have a seat.

From the signal, Clarence strolled behind me, heading towards the loveseat, sitting right beside me.