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chapter ten julia's girl
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When you lose someone, they're not really gone. Fragments of their being are left behind, scattered around you like fresh snow. Their favorite song comes on the radio and you think of them. You accidentally find a piece of their clothing and you see them wearing it. You can still feel them. Sometimes you can hear their voice or their laugh. You remember the life they shared with you—their story. Izzy Windsor remembered her mother in bits and pieces. Sometimes the memories brought her happiness like a breath of fresh air, but most of the time, they brought her pain.
She couldn't recall when she first looked at an article of clothing that once belonged to her mother, and all she could feel was this sharp ache in her chest. It just happened one day. Maybe that was why she wanted to get rid of all the clothes that once belonged to Julia Windsor. . . and yet she couldn't bring herself to do it. She felt guilty giving away pieces of her mother. Like if she gave away too much then she'd forget her entirely. And Izzy didn't want to forget her mother, she just wished she could remember her without all the pain.
Sometimes Izzy forgot what happened and she would go numb. Being numb was worse than being in pain. But then it'd hit her. One second, her mother was an afterthought, then Izzy remembered walking into the hospital and running into the trauma wing. She remembered how she fought against the doctors to get to her mom, and she remembered the regret which flooded her senses when she saw all the blood. And then the pain which came with those memories would be all she felt. It was consuming. Izzy wondered if it'd swallow her whole.
She was reminded of that feeling that morning when she walked past the mirror in her room and caught a glimpse of her mother's face. It all just came crashing down in the matter of a few seconds, and she couldn't believe she had almost forgotten. She just felt stuck as she stared at her reflection in the mirror and saw a corpse staring back at her.
It was the anniversary of Julia Windsor's death. A year ago, Julia died; she kicked the bucket; cashed in her chips; gave up the ghost . . . whatever . . . she died. And Izzy had almost forgotten. She remembered the days before, but not today. Fuck. She felt sick to her stomach.
